


Services Rendered

by Del (goddessdel)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dominant!Sherlock, Drug Use, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Light BDSM, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not actually AU, Porn With Plot, Pre-Series, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Sex, Sex Work, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, but an awful lot of porn, dominant!Irene, there's a relationship in here somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-29 07:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11435811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdel/pseuds/Del
Summary: The appointment was made with merely the initials SH and the highest recommendations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: This fic is almost entirely explicit. The explicit content is used as a venue to explore character and relationship development. Both rough sex and (mild) BDSM scenarios are explored (with both characters in both roles).
> 
> Although Irene Adler's chosen profession as a dominatrix is nominally the premise for this fic, and comes up given the timeline (pre-series), this is not a fic about dominance or BDSM. As such, this fic is not meant to reflect the sexual practices of sex workers or those in the BDSM community, or even to reflect on how Irene would behave in a professional dominatrix setting. I am not an expert in BDSM and do not even slightly claim to be. Instead, this fic uses sexual exploration to explore character development, which I said earlier. It bears repeating. This fic is about a fictional romantic relationship, not a (fictional) professional one. Irene may compare her interactions with Sherlock to those with a "client"; this is one only to emphasize how very different her interactions with Sherlock are compared to what she would do in her professional life, regardless of the monetary aspects related to their interactions. Though BDSM themes are touched upon (by the subject matter and by the nature of utilizing Irene's POV), they are not the central focus of this story and are not meant to reflect a realistic BDSM scene/scenario/relationship. Though I have tried to do due diligence in researching the topics contained herein, I am sure it is still vastly inaccurate in many ways.
> 
> Further, this fic explores casual drug use, as consistent with the timeline (pre-series) and what we canonically know about Sherlock Holmes. Again, not something I am exactly qualified to comment on, but I did my best.
> 
>  **TL;DR:** I put Sherlock and Irene in a variety of kinky situations that I'm not really qualified to write about because I wanted to see how they would react as characters to those situations. Some of these involve drug use; a lot involve sex (of all kinds).
> 
> Written: 2/27/13 - 7/7/17. This is complete, though I will be posting it weekly.
> 
> For anyone who might've wondered why I wasn't posting as much Sherlock fic lately - this is what I've been working on.... for the last 4 years. It got so much bigger than I'd ever imagined. Sorry / not sorry.
> 
> Thanks to Beverly, Tali, Natalie, Becs, and Lyra for their support (though none of this should be blamed on them), without which this would've stayed buried in my WIP folder forever. As you may be able to tell, I'm extremely nervous posting this, so there you have it.

When Irene walks into the sitting room, her perspective client is sitting ramrod straight upon her sofa, coat folded neatly next to him, blazer unbuttoned, and hands clasped over his lap.

 

It is not unusual for a new client to be nervous, but this is not a case of nerves. The lingering first impression, in the split second before he turns at her approach, is that the formal posture is his natural state. Interesting.

 

As soon as Irene enters the room, the man stands, his eyes fixed on her. It is hardly unusual to find a man staring, but the way he stares has something almost clinical to its nature. "Ms. Adler, I presume." His tone is matter-of-fact.

 

Refusing to react to the use of her real - rather than professional - name, Irene settles on her settee and notes with interest that he does not sit back down. "And how may I be of service, Mr..." she lets the sentence trail off, curious.

 

It makes no matter whether or not he uses his real name - she has built an iron-clad reputation on discretion, but she is perfectly capable of telling when clients lie to her and discovering the truth for herself one way or another - she never lets anyone have the upper hand. And it is highly unusual for her not to know already. The appointment was made with merely the initials SH and the highest recommendations. Her services cost a small fortune and her clientele has far more to lose than she does - nobody even hears whispers of her name without the proper credentials.

 

"Holmes." He is distracted, alternating between glancing around the room and staring at her with that same strange, detached intensity.

 

But he's telling the truth, that much she can tell immediately. The way his eyes dart up toward hers tell her that he's evaluating her response to the admission. And isn't that interesting? She's only heard one mention of a Mr. Holmes in the circles of her patronage, and this certainly isn't the dowdy middle-aged man behind the curtain. "Well then, Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?"

 

"I would like to engage your services."

 

Obviously. Irene draws her phone out of her pocket and quickly scrolls to her calendar, flipping through her appointment book. "Would Thursday next suit you?"

 

Mr. Holmes makes a frustrated noise and begins making an idle circuit of her living room, though his eyes have no trouble finding her own. "No. Not like that. I would like to engage your services. Exclusively."

 

One of Irene's eyebrows arches up, her hand stilling over her mobile. "For how long?"

 

"I've done the calculations. Allowing for the occurrence of additional scenarios during the course of my research, six months would be ideal."

 

Irene blinks. "You can't be serious."

 

Now a small frown mars his face. "I am always serious."

 

"Mr. Holmes, I am not in the habit of exclusivity and certainly not for such an extended period of time." When he does not look even slightly concerned by her protestations, Irene adds, incredulous, "What would I do with my regulars?"

 

"Cancel."

 

She's beginning to feel like this is some sort of joke. If it is, it's in very poor taste. Here is this man who doesn't use her professional title, doesn't seem the slightest bit uncomfortable in the parlor of a dominatrix, and somehow believes that he can monopolize her time and services for a ludicrously extended period. Irene cannot believe she has entertained this conversation as long as she has. Perhaps it was curiosity - she has seen just about every type of man or woman alive walk through her doors, but this one - he is another species entirely. "I'm terribly sorry you have wasted your time, but I do believe you have been misinformed as to the nature of my services."

 

"I am never misinformed. For the level of professionalism I require, your name was the only viable candidate." He sighs, clearly having expected her agreement by now. "I am willing to impart a considerable sum beyond your normal retainer, in recompense for any business disruptions such a long-term engagement may necessitate." His derision is plain, but whether it is against her or the necessity of going through the tedious details, she cannot tell.

 

There is silence in the room for several long moments while they observe one another. An overly elaborate game of chicken.

 

Irene lounges back on her chair in a deliberately unconcerned posture. Disrupting her regulars is a minor issue - they will follow her across the globe if need be, and most only manage to sneak away from the tribulations of their high ranking positions a few times a year anyway. But Mr. Holmes is assuming that she is easily bought, a notion of which she intends to firmly squash. People submit to her. Not the other way around. "What sort of engagement?"

 

"I'm conducting an experiment." He does not elaborate further, as though that is an answer in and of itself.

 

Though it is far from an explanation, the answer is more intriguing than Irene might have anticipated. Mr. Holmes is clearly not one of the typically misguided bourgeois, under the mistaken assumption that if they bandy about enough money she will decorate their arm at parties and fuck them behind closed doors, without the hassle of a relationship. No, Mr. Holmes is nothing at all like them. For one, the way he discusses money contains all the quiet certainty and vague distaste that only comes with old money. She would have usually dismissed him for such impatience and aristocracy alone, but there is something in his manner. Beyond the overwhelming superiority complex, Mr. Holmes seems somehow genuinely intrigued by her.

 

"Presuming I were to agree." Against her better judgment, Irene finds herself equally intrigued. She never can resist a mystery. "What, exactly, would I be agreeing to?"

 

Mr. Holmes observes her for a moment longer before seeing something that makes him nod and drop down onto the adjacent sofa, his eyes dropping from hers just briefly. "Although I am not asexual, I do find that I have difficulty reaching sexual gratification with others. I am perfectly capable of 'getting myself off,' and I even find it moderately enjoyable, but the interpersonal aspect has proven troublesome. It has become apparent that, in relationships, the other party often feels the need to exaggerate sexual responses out of a misguided concern for ego. I observe people for a living. It is not something I can simply turn off. And it is incredibly off-putting to know with absolute certainty that the physiological responses and vocal claims of my partner differ. Apparently, pointing out to one's partner that their responses are not commensurate is in poor etiquette. Further, I find that any partner I might choose inevitably requires an enormous amount of frankly obvious verbal direction in the bedroom, and they do not necessarily appreciate when I offer it. If I were to find a partner who was tolerable enough to repeat the experiment, I would then further have to manufacture some sort of superficial interest in their boring little daily lives in order to maintain a relationship, something for which I have neither the interest nor the time."

 

His recitation is dry and matter-of-fact, as though he is discussing the weather rather than sexual difficulties.

 

The next logical step is obvious. "Why not use a prostitute?" It is also something of a test. If he for one second implies that is his reason for being here, Irene will throw him out herself.

 

Instead, he makes a dismissive, derisive gesture. "Though the interpersonal issue is removed, the problem of exaggeration is only amplified. They lack - professionalism."

 

Irene cocks an eyebrow, lips pursed. "Which brings you here?"

 

"Ah, yes. My experiment: I require someone who will be completely honest with their responses, so as to better evaluate my own. I wish to determine if I am capable of deriving sexual pleasure from another when my mind is not otherwise distracted by their obvious inconsistencies. I determined that, given your expertise for the subject, the experiment would have the maximum probability for success."

 

"I am a dominatrix - not an escort."

 

The hint of a smirk twitches at Mr. Holmes' lips. "Yes. We shall get to that. I presume that you were trained in submission as well, as is customary amongst your profession?" This does actually appear as something of a question.

 

Irene holds his gaze, matching his matter-of-fact tone. "Yes."

 

"Good." And, with that, he rises gracefully from her sofa, re-buttons his blazer, and turns on his heel to leave.

 

"Mr. Holmes," Irene watches him pause with satisfaction, "I haven't agreed yet."

 

"Haven't you?"

 

She can hear the self-assured smile in his voice, and damn him if he isn't right. There is an unexpected lurch of something that might be excitement beating along with her heart. He is already halfway out of the door. "Thursday. 9pm. Sharp."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here you have the general premise. Either run away now or buckle up for the ride*.
> 
> *Irene Adler does not approve the usage of that innuendo. At all. She does, however, approve of restraints.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doorbell sounds precisely as the clock ticks over to nine, and Irene moves to answer it without hesitation, her heels rapping smartly across the marble with much the same tempo as her riding crop against flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone properly restrained?
> 
> Good, because ready or not, here we go.

Aside from canceling all her engagements for the rest of the week, a trial of sorts, Irene takes the few days before her next job to make a few discrete inquiries about the mysterious Mr. Holmes. The Iceman's little brother, Sherlock, as it happens. Vested with the family fortune but not a penchant for politics or high society - or, judging by his narrative the other day, much interest in society at all. He is apparently peripherally affiliated with Scotland Yard in something of a consulting capacity, and the only other detail she is able to uncover is that he graduated from Oxford with First Class Honors at sixteen. He does not usually appear in the circles to which he is entitled, nor is he familiar among the dominatrix circuit.

 

Whatever inquiries he has made are being kept very _hush hush_ , and she has to admire the diligence with which he has kept his little experiment anonymous. It is both refreshing and frustrating to take on a client with such minimal background information. Irene is thorough, but if there are other details of Sherlock's life they have been erased without a trace. It is of no matter - part of Irene's job description includes learning all the secrets that people like to hide from the rest of the world. And, if Sherlock's timetable is to be believed, she shall have plenty of time with which to work.

 

The doorbell sounds precisely as the clock ticks over to nine, and Irene moves to answer it without hesitation, her heels rapping smartly across the marble with much the same tempo as her riding crop against flesh. "Mr. Holmes."

 

"Ms. Adler," he acknowledges her with a slight nod, moving briskly through the door and slipping his coat and scarf off and neatly across his arm while she closes it and turns the lock.

 

Irene prefers not to speak to clients until they are behind bedroom doors, which appears to suit her guest perfectly. She turns without a word and begins ascending the staircase leisurely, knowing he will follow.

 

Irene opens the door to her playroom and motions him through in front of her with an arch of her eyebrow. She slips around the door and leans against it as she locks it with a practiced twist of her wrist, watching her guest take in the room, his gaze sweeping across it even as he remains motionless, barely a few steps inside.

 

She always tries to see the room from her client's perspective - their initial responses can be quite illuminating - the furrow of a brow in confusion or slight widening of eyes in surprise. Sherlock is not so easy to read as he takes in the plush armchair and end-table situated with a perfect view of the large, canopied bed. There's a full bedroom set - bedside tables, an over-sized bureau, wardrobe with adjacent Shoji screen, and a sturdy chest, all in the same warm mahogany. There are only two visible doors - the other leads to the en-suite. There is a third door, hidden discretely, leading to her private bedroom. There is also a rather stark wooden chair placed inauspiciously next to the bureau, out of the way until needed.

 

The entire room was designed with warm woods and soft creams. Irene prefers to work and play in only the utmost luxury. All her toys are safely stored in the bureau and chest, out of sight, and the only decorative choice that directly demarcates this as her playroom is the gratuitous use of mirrors as decor.

 

After a moment, and still with a complete lack of reaction, Sherlock crosses to the armchair, places his coat and scarf across the arm, undoes the button of his blazer, and sits with perfect posture. Only then do his eyes circle back to her and it's his turn to raise an eyebrow when he finds her watching him from her place against the door.

 

Irene crosses smoothly toward the wardrobe - she can almost feel his eyes tracking her movements. She pauses with her hands at the zip of her dress, turning to meet his eyes over her shoulder and offer, "I thought you might like to watch me disrobe. Some people do. Or you could always strip my clothes off yourself."

 

"How considerate." Something that might be amusement flickers in his expression before it returns to polite disinterest. "I would prefer to watch you remove them - this time."

 

Irene shrugs easily and acquiesces, biting back the huff of frustration that wants to escape. She still cannot read him, and this whole experiment has her a bit out of sorts. Usually she's the one making all the decisions and providing all the mysteries in this room. She can't deny that she's intrigued by the challenge though.

 

Irene is adept at all manner of fastenings, and she slides the long zip down in one smooth movement, shimmying her hips and letting the fabric drop to the floor. She's left with stockings, knickers, suspenders, and her heels. She steps neatly out of her discarded dress and turns to face Sherlock with a smirk. "Now, I'm afraid there are some ground rules."

 

"I've done my research," he waves her off, dismissive.

 

Oh, research is never the same as reality, as many of her clients have had to be taught. However, Sherlock is not her typical client and he had been spectacularly over-informed at their last meeting. "On me."

 

He almost smiles, looking rather pleased that she's caught on so quickly. "Of course. And did your research on me provide any interesting insights?"

 

It's casual, as though he had expected nothing less of her. Irene stops in front of him, just short of touching. His gaze is steady at her face and it unnerves her - makes her want to dig out her riding crop and smack him to attention. "Oh, now, that would be telling." She leans forward, her hands just adjacent to his on the arms of the chair. "You should take better care of yourself, Mr. Holmes. Though you seem to have managed a clean bill of health last week."

 

He smirks, one eyebrow rising, and Irene realizes that that checkup was on her behalf. He might as well be handing over his health records. How very - thorough. "Did I? I'm afraid I wasn't listening - the doctor was busy prattling on about smoking cessation. I did acquire quite a considerable number of nicotine patches."

 

"And have you stopped smoking?" Irene's not even quite sure why she asks, but the way his eyes sparkle with amusement more than make up for the impromptu nature of her question.

 

Definitely amusement. And he leans slightly back, relaxing marginally. "God, no."

 

Irene cannot resist smirking back - and she has learnt something after all - Sherlock Holmes also enjoys misbehaving. "Naughty boy," she teases, leaning closer. "Do you want to be punished?"

 

His response is immediate and businesslike. "I want you to bring yourself to orgasm."

 

Irene draws back. Straight to business it is. "Any way in particular?"

 

Sherlock gives it a moment of consideration. "However you prefer."

 

They still have yet to touch. Irene withdraws completely, filing that away with his responses. "So, you like to watch?"

 

A brief flicker of confusion or annoyance. "I would like to observe you, yes."

 

He's still erect in her chair, neither relaxed nor excited. It's... frustrating. "Would you like to get more comfortable?"

 

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you."

 

Irene nods curtly and crosses back toward the bed. His eyes are still following her, so she makes a show of removing the last of her clothing, rolling her stockings down deliberately slowly and kicking off her shoes at the end. She trails one hand along the wooden chest at the base of the bed. "Any requests?"

 

"That you follow my directions immediately and without question," his voice is low and authoritative.

 

Irene finds herself quite looking forward to turnabout - having him at her whim. But for all his cool confidence, Irene cannot forget what has brought him here. Sherlock cannot be nearly as comfortable in the situation as he'd like her to believe. And it is her job to make him comfortable - for now. What she does requires trust, and all her clients eventually come to trust her unreservedly. "If that's what you'd like," and it's only slightly a question. One that Sherlock declines to acknowledge.

 

Forgoing any toys, Irene settles herself naked across the bedspread where he will have an unobstructed view of her body. He wants her natural responses, and she is far more likely to be brought off with her hands than some overdone toy. Instead, Irene lets her thighs splay open as she runs her hands first along her breasts, her fingers tugging and twisting at her nipples in short, hard motions. It's not the first time she's gotten herself off for an audience, though they are usually tied up for the show.

 

She is an expert at eliciting any desired response from the human body - especially her own. Pleasure quickly begins to coil through her, following the sure strokes of her hands that leave her gasping and sighing. By the time her fingers slide between her open thighs, it is with a slick sense of urgency.

 

It is impossible to forget that his eyes are following her every movement, even when hers are closed. Being watched only heightens the pleasure - at her heart, Irene has always been an entertainer, and she does love to put on a show.

 

Irene hears a soft sound of disapproval from the chair across the room and her thighs fall further open, knowing without looking that the angle must have been off for viewing. She meets Sherlock's eyes and licks her lips while she slides the fingers of her right hand over her clit with in counterpoint to the left playing with her breasts. The moan that escapes is entirely beyond her control.

 

He remains outwardly unaffected, and Irene is grudgingly impressed at the stoicism he is giving to his experiment. All his focus is on her but his gaze is analytical rather than lustful. The dominatrix in her rears up at the challenge of cracking that façade.

 

She arches into her movements, careful not to exaggerate or muffle her body's responses, her fingers circling her clit with just that edge of too much pressure that only extends the pleasure that is curling through her in hot waves.

 

Irene is teetering close to the edge, keeping firm pressure on her clit as she works it, when Sherlock's voice interrupts her. "Do you normally bring yourself to orgasm so quickly?"

 

Irene's voice is less steady than she'd like, though she manages to keep herself just on the unfulfilled side of orgasm. "Sometimes."

 

"Humor me."

 

Irene removes her hand from her aching clit, body flushed after her ministrations. "What would you prefer?"

 

Sherlock leans forward, watching her carefully, his hands steepled under his chin. "You only require clitoral stimulation to reach orgasm."

 

It's a statement but she answers anyway, knowing first hand that a response is always preferred. "Yes."

 

"But you frequently experiment with other methods of reaching orgasm." His questions are rapid-fire, as though he has already guessed her answers but needs her verification to be certain.

 

Her body is still flushed and thrumming with pleasure, even as her mind races to anticipate what he is thinking - what he wants. "Yes."

 

"And you are using the most rapid method of orgasm because you believe that is what I would prefer?"

 

Which implies that is not what he wants. That she's misread him even as he's been reading her. "Yes."

 

His gaze is intent but his voice is soft, thoughtful, as he sits back. "No. Don't do that. Don't rush on my account."

 

Irene takes a deep breath to calm herself, even though her mind and body are racing with possibilities. When she is no longer quite so on edge, she nods. "All right." She keeps her eyes on his as her fingers dip back between her legs in careful, light strokes. "What would you like me to do?"

 

"Experiment."

 

Well, that she can manage. Irene favors him with a wicked smirk, sliding her fingers lower and slowly pressing one inside herself. "This is your experiment... if you're a good boy perhaps I'll show you some of mine as a reward."

 

His eyes flash quickly with something that looks like promise before they clear, his focus all the more intense for that brief lapse.

 

Irene winds herself up as slowly as possible this time, just to make sure that he understands who is ultimately in control. It's bad form for a dominatrix to openly flout loopholes in the rules so early into their association, but she can't resist misbehaving just a little.

 

Her own body is not a challenge - she can get herself off at her leisure. She can get most others off with a single firm command. She wonders if it would work on him - oh, she cannot wait to try.

 

"Better. Now add another finger. Slowly."

 

The latent heat is slowly reasserting itself, spurred on by the images darting through her head and the shock of Sherlock's low voice directing her. Irene adds a second finger, reaching and stretching as she curls them, her thumb circling her clit.

 

She lets the heat simmer with careful strokes that wind her just a bit tighter with each pass. She keeps her eyes on Sherlock, but his face remains impassive and intent even as her breathing and heart rate become rapid and clipped.

 

His voice is lowered. "Bring your left hand to your clitoris."

 

Toes curling into the bed, Irene brings her other hand to take over circling her swollen clit, rocking her hips in time with the thrusts of her fingers. Her moans and gasps match the rhythm of her fingers and her denied orgasm heats her skin, sweat breaking out over her body as she works herself closer.

 

She's going to be rather impressed and more than a little upset if he cuts her off again. But his gaze flicks over her before he nods once, a decisive gesture.

 

Letting her eyes drift shut and her head roll back against the bed, Irene flicks her clit hard and curls her fingers up. She falls apart in a wave of heat and pleasure, her moans echoing in her ears.

 

Withdrawing her hands from between her trembling legs, Irene fights to catch her breath. She cannot remember the last time she was the only affected person in the room. It is disconcerting and makes her feel strangely vulnerable. She darts a glance at Sherlock, but if he is affected by her display, he is hiding it well.

 

"Again."

 

Irene's eyes shoot up to his. He is leaning forward again, elbows on his knees and hands steepled. Intent. Irene tries to suppress her disbelief. "Again?"

 

"Yes. Again." He seems to have to force himself to add, "Please."

 

Irene opens her mouth to explain, wondering if he is more ignorant than she has assumed, but he cuts her off. "I know you are oversensitive. Begin anyway."

 

Irene shudders, mostly at the idea of being pushed to test her body's limits so early into their work. She is used to testing the limits of others but she isn't against pushing her own. It will hardly be the first time.

 

Irene brings her hands back up to her breasts, pebbling her nipples between wet fingers, sensitive enough with even light strokes.

 

This time is certainly going to be quick and hard, and she wonders if Sherlock already realizes that the added bite of pain will only enhance her pleasure. He's certainly pushing her toward that edge already.

 

Her body is still trembling under her touch and Irene lets the soft whimpers and moans slip through her lips unheeded as she gently works herself down and back up all at once.

 

Irene runs her fingertips along her folds, gathering wetness, and then quickly brings her hand to her clit, a sharp breath escaping at the first touch to sensitive nerves.

 

She lets her head drop back against the bed, her body arching and free hand clutching at the bedding as the pleasure zips through her, sharp and fast. It requires a little more work to get herself off this time, her thumb steady and hard against her clit as she presses two fingers inside herself in a quicker, rougher rhythm that leaves her whimpering and writhing against the bed.

 

When she comes, it's fast and hard and all at once, and Irene gives her body over to the rolling pleasure that leaves her shaking in its wake.

 

The room is silent for a long moment, except for her quick, uneven breaths and his steady ones.

 

When she has firm control over all her limbs again, Irene shifts to her side, lounging provocatively as she lets her gaze refocus on her voyeur.

 

Sherlock is still sat across from her, hands resting lightly on the arms of the chair. "I find it fascinating that you can 'get off' while being observed." His tone is direct and flippant, perhaps a bit curious.

 

Now that is intriguing. Irene sits up, moving to the edge of the bed. "Can you not?"

 

His eyebrows draw together in what Irene is beginning to recognize as confusion. "I haven't tried. It seems - distracting."

                                                      

Irene drags her gaze over his body blatantly, lingering over all the telltale signs of arousal. "I have always found it considerably heightens the pleasure."

 

His eyes dart away from hers, skittering across the room in a zigzag pattern. "I had not considered that eventuality."

 

Now it's Irene's turn to lean forward. "Would you like to?" She bites her lip, watching his gaze follow the motion, and waits avidly for his response.

 

He stands without preamble and begins to remove his clothing in quick, economic movements. Unbuttoning his shirt and folding it precisely before laying it across the adjacent end table, out of which he draws a bottle of lube without needing to ask - it is rather obvious placement, she supposes. His trousers are quick to join the neat stack of cloth, his socks tucked into his loafers and placed under the chair. No pants, Irene notes with what she fears might be fascination.

 

Once naked, Sherlock sprawls back in the chair, slouched and deceptively bored, legs spread open as he slides his hand leisurely up and down his cock. For all intents and purposes, he looks as though he is alone in his own room, or wherever he normally masturbates. She suspects a great number of infrequent places.

 

Well, shyness certainly isn't the problem. Irene's tongue darts out to wet her lips instinctively as she rolls forward and shifts so that she is propped up on her elbows at the foot of the bed, watching attentively. She can't help that - Irene has always been an exhibitionist, and she equally loves watching others perform.

 

Ever the professional, she makes note of his technique, what he likes - this isn't a seduction and he seems to be taking the task of eliciting pleasure seriously. It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that anticipation is half the fun, but then perhaps now is not the time. Watching him, she wonders if she'll get a chance to turn the tables - to be the one directing his movements - getting him off with his own hand. She's certain she could show him some tricks.

 

Sherlock's gaze is still focused on her, as stoic and intent as earlier in the evening, when she was the one coming undone. It is fascinating. And surprisingly arousing.

 

"Would it help if I provided some visual stimulation?" Irene keeps her tone straddling the line between blanketly unassuming and sinfully insinuating.

 

Sherlock shakes his head, a short, precise movement. His voice is surprisingly steady, though Irene recognizes that it is purposefully so - he is modulating his breathing very carefully between words. "That would rather negate the experiment."

 

"Oh well," Irene sighs as playfully as she dares, letting the promise show in her eyes, "perhaps next time."

 

He doesn't acknowledge her response, his strokes gradually increasing in speed and pressure, judging by the way his muscles flex and his breath hitches. Irene finds herself drawn to his long, pale fingers, clenched tight around his flushed cock.

 

For all his outward calm earlier, it doesn't take Sherlock long before his hips are arching into his hand in a jagged rhythm, his strokes rapid and purposeful.

 

He comes with a grunt, eyes briefly fluttering shut. When they open again, there is no trace of languor in his sharp gaze. He looks as though he has completed a necessary task and is anxious to move on to something more compelling. Irene tosses him a cloth from her bedside table and he catches it in his clean hand easily, quickly wiping himself up and tossing the cloth away.

 

This whole evening has been - surprising. Sherlock Holmes has been a series of surprises since he first requested they meet. It is refreshing, when usually she can see right through people, right to the heart of what they want - and what they'll pay her to give it to them. It's pathetically easy to dominate them, and she gets so bored.

 

Sherlock is a challenge.

 

So, when he stands and reaches for his clothing, Irene swallows back a momentary tinge of disappointment and rises neatly instead, crossing to her wardrobe.

 

He dresses as rapidly as he'd stripped - something that makes her itch to tie him up somewhere and see how long it takes him to get free. Once Sherlock has shrugged on his blazer, he dismisses her. "Thank you. That is enough for today. I'll leave now."

 

Irene bites back her irritation and pulls her dressing gown tight around her, moving briskly toward the en-suite. She turns back at the door, reconsidering his tone. "Did I pass?"

 

"Perhaps."

 

His smirk is a perfect mirror of hers as he slips out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to randomscientist for spotting a needed Brit-pick!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door chimes at precisely nine. Irene appreciates that his punctuality was not a one off. Nor, it seems, was their liaison. Not that Irene had any doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hideous delay - Comicon ate everything, and then I was having technical issues with AO3. I promise to post the next chapter over the weekend to make up for it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for their support thus far!

The door chimes at precisely nine. Irene appreciates that his punctuality was not a one off. Nor, it seems, was their liaison. Not that Irene had any doubts.

 

She makes him wait, checking through the peephole to be sure that it's him and that he's alone. He's impatient, pressing the buzzer two more times in rapid succession before she can even cross to the door. Irene considers making him wait even longer for his impatience, but she's not sure how he'd react, which is a novelty in and of itself. Irene opens the door, stepping back in its wake.

 

Sherlock strides through immediately, opening his mouth - no doubt to chastise her - before he catches sight of her. "You're - oh."

 

"I believe the word you're searching for is: naked."

 

"Yes, quite." His gaze lingers over her before he manages to tear it away. "Do you habitually wander the house naked whilst expecting company?"

 

Irene grins at his fluster, amused. "Was I expecting company?"

 

His eyebrows pinch together and his eyes remain pointedly at the level of her face. "Of course. We had an appointment."

 

Irene rests her hands over her hips and regards him with one imperious eyebrow. "Did we?"

 

His eyes narrow and then clear. "Yes. And you _were_ expecting me."

 

She smirks, slipping around him and moving to ascend the stairs. She pauses at the landing to glance down at him. "Of course I was. Do you think I habitually wander my house naked? Goodness, what must you think of me?"

 

He takes the stairs two at a time, somehow seeming graceful instead of hurried. He pauses a step below her, their heights almost level. "I think that you wanted to unbalance me."

 

They are standing perilously close, and she has to repress the urge to lean into him and feel the delicious mix of fabrics - wool, cashmere, cotton - against her skin. An enticing idea to file away for later. "Did I succeed?"

 

Sherlock stands perfectly still, just a hairsbreadth away from too close. "No," he bites out defiantly, tension lacing his frame.

 

"Oh, well. Can't blame a girl for trying. Are you coming?" Irene shrugs and turns toward her playroom, taking a few steps without waiting for him.

 

He doesn't move, waiting for her to turn back before demanding, "Do you only ask questions you already know the answer to?"

 

It's hardly a question. She wonders if he caught the innuendo - she thinks he has by the slight flare of his nostrils. Irene smirks, hand on the doorknob. "I don't know, do you?"

 

He follows her into her playroom anyway, just as she knew he would.

 

She crosses immediately to the bed, reclining onto it, her knees crossed. Sherlock settles in his chair, coat neatly folded over the side and blazer unbuttoned. Irene watches him, feeling more in her element. She'd felt strangely vulnerable under his probing stare last week. This time, she intends to turn the tables. "And what sort of _experiments_ do you have in mind today, Mr. Holmes?"

 

"Begin as before."

 

"Really?" Irene lets some deviousness and surprise bleed through her voice, "Running out of ideas already? I'd be happy to offer suggestions..."

 

"Any true experiment requires replication." His tone is arch but she can see the hint of humor curling at the edges of his mouth.

 

Irene rises neatly, pulling back the coverlet before settling on the luxurious sheets, her back propped against the copious pillows at the head. She lets her legs fall open, watching his expression as she does so. "And what do you hope to replicate?"

 

"You."

 

His responses are always surprising and faintly thrilling and Irene thinks that she really ought not to let him affect her in such a way. Instead, she runs her fingertips feather-light across her skin, regarding him lazily. "The body is not quite so predictable," she muses.

 

"Says the dominatrix," he raises one eyebrow, now clearly amused.

 

Irene flashes him a sharp grin, the dominatrix shining through this play at submission. "Oh people are quite predictable. Pathetic, really. The body, on the other hand, is _alive_." She lets her hand trail across her sex at the last word, her hips tilting up to illustrate her point.

 

Something crosses his face quickly before he can cover it but Irene cannot quite make it out. Confusion? Longing? He leans forward instead, scrutinizing her. Irene's skin hums under his gaze and her fingers. "And is that how you find me? Pathetic?"

 

Irene's eyes snap to his at the question. It is demanding but surprisingly honest. It somehow compels the same honesty out of her, even though she'd never planned to admit nearly as much. "I find you - refreshing."

 

"Good." He sits back and she can see the slight difference in his posture now, a relaxation of the tension that had thrummed, barely noticeable, underneath.

 

He doesn't elaborate and Irene is thankful. She moves her hands more purposefully along her body to distract both of them from her admission. It works, if the way Sherlock's eyes dilate is any indication. The warm pleasure humming under her skin beats and throbs to life as her fingers dance across her clit, pausing to tease and side through her slick folds. She's been turned on since he dashed across her threshold, a challenge in the razor-sharp edge to his gaze and wit.

 

Not that she'll ever admit that.

 

Any more than he'll admit to being turned on watching her, despite the ample evidence to the contrary. It makes her bold, that knowledge, as she watches him watch her, playing both their bodies under her own expert hands.

 

She goes slowly. Each stroke calculated to elicit a certain response, to provide a certain visual. Irene well remembers his admonition about going too fast, so she teases them both instead, deliberately recreating her motions, one hand at her breasts and the other stroking between her legs.

 

If anything, it's actually more intense this week. They're still yet to touch, but she can feel his eyes searching her as though he can see right through her. There's something - dark and anticipatory - dancing across his features. As though he's remembering her and watching her at the same time - comparing and taking notes.

 

She should be displeased to share his attention - even with herself - but instead she finds herself wondering how close her responses are, whether she remembers her own touch accurately against the building wave of pleasure. She thinks he'd tell her, if she asked.

 

Irene presses her fingers harder against her clit, seeking that razor-fine edge of pleasure-pain that she desperately needs to soothe the building pressure. Her breaths are stilted between gasps and moans. Her eyes stay fixed to Sherlock's, waiting to see what he'll demand from her this time.

 

He nods, a quick, miniscule movement, and Irene lets her eyes drift shut at the permission, her fingers working harder, faster. She twists one nipple sharply and comes with a rolling moan.

 

While she's still trying to catch her breath, Sherlock rises neatly from the chair, his blazer already over one arm.

 

Irene sits up immediately from where she's slid into the soft down of the pillows. "Your turn."

 

He stops and turns toward her again, movements stiff. "This isn't show and tell," he sneers.

 

"All the same - take off your clothes."

 

He scoffs and stubbornly refuses to obey. He's doing it mostly to be contrary; she recognizes that in the set of his jaw. Finally, the wariness leaves his eyes and he sets his jacket aside, immediately dropping trou.

 

His cock juts out, erect and proud as the rest of him while he undoes the buttons of his shirt, eyes never leaving Irene's. He certainly has nothing to be ashamed of - that's not the problem.

 

Irene feels a surprising tingle low in her stomach as she takes in his naked form with a leisure she'd not allowed herself last week. She tells herself it's just the tang of victory at knowing her display so clearly arouses him no matter how little he reacts openly. "Come here."

 

Sherlock hesitates for only a fraction of a second, his eyes darting around the room, and then he marches purposefully to her bed and lies down.

 

Irene rolls into his side, pressing her flushed, sweaty skin into the cool, hard lines of his body. It feels thrilling and somehow illicit to be touching him. Irene has always believed in making a strong first impression.

 

She drapes her leg over his, pressing the slick skin of her sex over his thigh. Sherlock stiffens under her touch - does he not like it or is he just unaccustomed? - Irene leans into him and circles her hand loosely around the hard, silky skin of his shaft. His breath catches as Irene carefully slides her palm across him, her thumb brushing across the head. She keeps her grip loose and teasing for a few strokes, mindful of the friction, and then she releases him.

 

Sherlock merely watches her, though his brows knit together. Irene indulges a smirk as she crawls over him, reaching for the bedside table drawer. His cock bounces into her belly and she leans closer, trapping his hard length between them and letting her breasts brush his chest as her hands find what they've been looking for. It would be so easy to shift slightly and just take him inside her - she's more than prepared. She's surprised at herself for the thought, but it's too soon for that she knows, with something that cannot possibly be disappointment.

 

She slides deliberately slowly back across him to prop herself up on her elbow. His cock drags a wet line across her stomach, though she says nothing, even as she takes him firmly in hand, the lube slick between her fingers. She lets her eyes focus on his as she slides her fist over his cock, her grip tight and fast, a twist of her wrist on the upstroke and her thumb grazing the swollen head on the down as she pumps him.

 

Sherlock makes a low sound, quickly bitten back, but his hand moves to clutch at her hip. His fingers dig into her as she speeds up, neatly cycling through every one-handed trick she knows - there are quite a considerable number.

 

He's tense beneath her, his muscles twitching and cock leaking. His eyes are screwed shut now, breaths coming hard from his nose. But his jaw is set and she knows he's holding back. Irene tightens her grip. "You're going to come for me. Right now." Her voice is strong: a command. Her work voice.

 

His eyes snap to hers, full of accusation and lust and something that might be respect, even as his mouth opens and he spills, hot, over her hand with a low grunt. Irene strokes him through it until he winces, and then she reaches neatly for a cloth in her drawer.

 

She wipes her hand and settles back, smug, letting the cloth drop to his stomach.

 

Sherlock cleans himself with short, economical movements, tossing the dirtied cloth carelessly to the side. If she had to clean her playroom, she'd be quite cross at his untidiness. Then again, she's never been afraid to get things a bit messy.

 

He rises from the bed without a word and crosses to his clothes.

 

Irene settles back to watch, suddenly desperate for a fag. She almost laughs aloud when he turns back from rifling through his coat pockets with a pack of cigs. "Mind if I smoke?" He slides one into his mouth without waiting for her reply and lights it, inhaling deeply.

 

It crosses Irene's mind that they should be in her room - she doesn't usually smoke here. She shakes that thought away, watching the fluid lines of his body, and the way his Adam's apple bobs as he smokes.

 

Irene pulls her own emergency pack out of the bedside table, lighting it quickly and inhaling the sweet rush of nicotine and misbehavior. "Not at all."

 

Sherlock takes long, hard drags, finishing his swiftly. He makes no move to dress or leave. Irene smokes more leisurely, savoring the wicked pleasure.

 

"That brand is illegal in the UK. Too high tar."

 

Irene winks. "I know a special importer - well, I know what she likes."

 

He's crossing back to the bed before she's realized he would. He leans over, plucks the cigarette away and kisses her, inhaling the smoke from her lungs as she starts, opening her mouth under his. His tongue delves immediately into her mouth, exploring, thoroughly tasting her. He sweeps up all the smoke on her tongue and lips before pulling back for a ragged breath. Irene's pulse is pounding in her ears as she sucks in her own breath and watches him press her cigarette to his lips. His eyes close as he inhales rapidly before handing it back to her. He must see the question in her eyes. "You smoke my brand. It tastes different on you. That possibility hadn't occurred to me before."

 

Irene inhales to steady her suddenly frayed nerves as he drops away from her again, donning his clothes as he lights another fag. He stops at the door, it just pressed to his lips. "Same time next week." It is not a question.

 

He's gone, bounding down the stairs with fast, hard steps.

 

Irene finishes her cigarette, though it doesn't take away the dark, smoky taste of him invading her mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No," his voice is sharp and Irene's hands halt with the ties half undone. "Let me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's Monday for most of us. Shh. That's almost still the weekend? This is quite a long chapter to start your week off with.

Irene waits for him to remove his coat and blazer, folding them neatly across the arm of the chair. When he turns back to her, Irene moves for the ties to her dressing gown - there's no point undressing until she has the undivided attention of her audience.

 

"No," his voice is sharp and Irene's hands halt with the ties half undone. "Let me."

 

But he makes no move toward her, instead undressing himself with the same alacrity as always. Once he is naked, Irene lets her hands fall to her sides with a brief nod. Sherlock steps forward immediately. His hands tug the loosened ties completely undone and, when her dressing gown falls open, his warm hands settle at her waist, spanning it easily. Irene shivers under his hands and realizes with a start that this is the first time he's initiated physical contact, except for that one tempestuous kiss, smoke caught between their lips.

 

He slips the silk of her dressing gown off her shoulders and walks her backwards toward the bed even as his hands smooth up her back to unhook her brassiere. His hands run along her arms as he slides the straps off. Once he has discarded her bra, his hands move to her chest, twisting her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs and making her gasp before they trail along her ribs in soft strokes that leave her shivering when the pads of his fingers brush her most sensitive spots.

 

His mouth quickly follows the path of his hands, lips closing around first one nipple and then the other before he presses wet nips and kisses across her breasts. He sucks a hard line down her sternum, and Irene finds herself moaning before she realizes he's going to leave marks. She usually maintains a strict policy against marks on her body. In this case, he is the only one who will see them, and the delightful sharp edge of his teeth is more than enough to silence any protest she might normally make.

 

His lips lavish attention across her chest until his hands come to rest at her suspenders. Sherlock pulls back, leaving Irene gasping. He quickly moves to finish undressing her, unsnapping the clips of her suspenders to slide down her legs, her knickers following shortly after.

 

He kneels before her. His hands skim her arse and legs, caressing the soles of her feet as he unrolls her stockings and removes them. She is left bare before him as he presses her back onto the bed, and she sits with the lightheaded feeling that he's just traced her entire body, except the most important part.

 

Irene reclines on her elbows and watches him with a tingling sense of anticipation. Her legs fall open, and he is so close that she can feel the heat of his breath ghosting against her most sensitive flesh. It's on the tip of her tongue to demand that he to do _something_ , but Irene lets the fleeting insanity of that thought pass. She is not in the habit of begging.

 

Sherlock smirks up at her and Irene flushes - she has the distinct and disconcerting feeling that he knows exactly what she was thinking. He brings one hand up to her sex, fingers moving unerringly to press against her clit, rubbing in smooth, circular strokes. His other hand returns to her breasts, spanning her chest, fingers brushing over her nipples as he strokes and squeezes her.

 

Irene lets her head fall back between her shoulders and revels in the feel of his hands exactly where she wants them.

 

He slides one long finger inside her slowly, keeping up the motions of his fingers against her clit and nipples, and Irene gasps at the sensation, careful not to bite down her natural response. He's winding her up slowly, making her want more of him, of something, _anything_. She hardly has time for any rebuttal before he is continuing, finger pumping into her in long, smooth strokes.

 

He presses harder against her clit, sending another hot wave of pleasure coiling low in her stomach. When he slides a second finger inside her to join the first, Irene clenches down, clutching his fingers inside her - the demand that she won't let herself voice.

 

Sherlock makes a low noise at that, and then his fingers do begin to pump into her in earnest. Irene shifts one leg wider and pushes herself up to watch him. His eyes are on her sex, intent. She imagines she can feel them scorching her as his fingers twist inside her, thumb sliding against her clit, and his other hand toying with her breasts.

 

The steady burn of pleasure leaps into flames, licking slowly through her as she digs her fingers into the bedding and listens to the echo of her own cries and the wet slap and suck of their skin filling the room. She realizes with a slowness that doesn't become her that he's following her example from their last two encounters and that he's doing so perfectly. He's playing her body with her own expertise - her own motions repeated under very different hands.

 

The thought alone pushes her to the edge, and Irene rocks her hips hard against his hand, unable to remain passive. She just needs...

 

Sherlock surges forward, his mouth covering her neglected breast to match the motions of his hand on the other. Between her legs, he presses his thumb hard against her clit and curls his fingers deep inside her as he pumps them in and out, pressing until he finds the spot that explodes stars behind eyelids that she doesn't remember closing.

 

They've ended up tangled completely on the bed, Irene realizes as her senses slowly start returning to her. She hardly has much time to muse before his hands are slipping away from her and it is his mouth that presses against her slick sex.

  
Irene's eyes fly open on a moan, her hands flying to his dark mess of curls quite against her will. "Mr. Holmes," she means it to be a warning but it is mostly a moan as his tongue runs along her folds in soft strokes against oversensitive skin.

 

He is clearly a man that does not know when enough becomes too much. He indulges in excesses - the faint marks on his arms and his preference for high tar tobacco attest to that. And right now, she is apparently his indulgence. She thinks he'd cycle through his entire list of experiments all at once if either of their bodies could stand it.

 

With a shocked gasp, luckily quickly explained away by his increasingly bold tongue, Irene realizes she is looking forward to trying them all.

 

His mouth moves over her at a leisurely pace, just keeping the curls of heat licking through her body as he explores her. He's testing her responses - varying the pressure and length of his strokes, repeating them when she responds favorably before moving on. Sherlock seems determined to find every last way to make her moan - not that he needs to; he already has a frighteningly firm grasp on what she likes.

 

Irene tightens her grip on his hair and rolls her hips impatiently. As fascinating as his exploration of her is, any vestiges of post-orgasm languor are quickly vanishing, and Irene is not in the habit of being patient.

 

"Show me," he lifts his head just long enough to form the words, eyes dark and chin glistening.

 

Irene does not hesitate at his _request_. She rolls her hips again and guides him with a firm hand, showing him exactly what she likes.

 

Unlike most of her pupils, he does not require verbal direction, which is almost a shame. Irene toys with the idea of commanding him aloud anyway but quickly discards it. That would be boring and expected, and this is anything but. No, this is as close as it is possible to having herself between her legs.

 

With her hand coiled tightly in his hair and his face buried in her sex, Sherlock's tongue laps at her, following her directions with the subtlest of nudges. Curling inside her, licking across her, flicking and sucking at her clit - hard, just how she likes it. Irene rolls her hips up carefully but brazenly, and Sherlock lets her, his quick breaths ghosting cool across her warmed skin, and his mouth hot and hungry in counterpoint.

 

She is sensitive and ready anyway, pleasure sparking and firing across her body at his touch, leaving her moaning and shivering. Irene uses him unapologetically to get herself off, reveling in the dual pleasures of dominating and training someone who requires so little of either but lets her all the same.

 

Irene arches her spine, throws her head back, and tightens her thighs around Sherlock's head, letting the pleasure roll through her as his lips and tongue curve around her clit, sucking and stroking just a touch roughly. She grinds up, holding him firmly where she wants him, and lets her orgasm wash through her until she is gasping and moaning and fighting for her breath.

 

She only allows herself a brief recovery before letting her thighs fall open and releasing her iron grip on his hair. It is rather a convenient length and she enjoys mussing his curls. The man looks thoroughly shagged as he lifts his head and regards her with a calculating, self-satisfied smirk, and she hasn't even shagged him yet.

 

Perhaps it's time she changed that.

 

Irene guides him over her, her tongue trailing across his clean-shaven jaw and over his swollen lips. She opens her mouth against his and breathes out, "I'm going to have you now." Reaching between them to brush her thumb over the head of his cock and echo the promise in her voice. "What shall we start with?"

 

Sherlock withdraws just enough to watch her, his eyes dark and his voice thick. "Missionary is traditional, I believe."

 

Irene continues to stroke him loosely, her other hand tracing patterns across his chest. "But so dull. Wouldn't you prefer to try something more creative?"

 

"We will." He promises, leaning down on his elbows and pressing his body flush against hers, his cock and her hand trapped between them. "After."

 

It's hard to argue with the low promise in his voice. Irene bites her lip and lets him slip free of her grasp as he slides down her body to settle between her legs. She can feel him there, and her body is already humming again in anticipation. "Normally, I'd insist upon a condom."

 

Sherlock snorts but freezes in place. "Do you normally have intercourse with clients?"

 

Irene suppresses the urge to smack him for the knowing look he gives her. "Not normally, no." Nothing about her interactions with this man have been even approaching normal for either her work or private lives. Perhaps that novelty is part of what makes his experiment worth partaking in.

 

He considers her carefully before he speaks. "You have an IUD."

 

She's surprised he would think of that first, when it had been the last thing on her mind. Irene has no intention of ever becoming pregnant, though it is an easy enough situation to correct should it occur. "Yes."

 

Sherlock nods slowly, carefully. "And my health records. Unless I should be concerned about yours?"

 

"You've clearly already seen mine," she challenges, and he doesn't deny it.

 

He raises his eyebrow in question. They are both meticulous about their health and have the records to prove it. She would never have let him in her bed in the first place if she'd thought otherwise. She'd only brought it up now because part of her wants the barrier between them - something to shift this back into the more comfortable realm of her work and away from... whatever this actually is.

 

Irene shoves that part aside, irritated at her own irrationality where Sherlock is concerned. This is an experiment - an interesting diversion, nothing more. She doesn't need props to help her feel in control. Irene meets Sherlock's eyes and nods, her fingers resuming their teasing patterns across his chest.

 

When Sherlock slides into her, Irene instinctively tenses. Before she can relax again, he's pausing, giving her time to adjust. He pauses three more times, stopping almost before she realizes that she wants him to. Though her sex life is more than creative and she is more than prepared for him, it's been a long time since she's properly been with a man. It's somehow different - the throbbing heat of him pushing inside her. Irene exhales a shaky breath. "It's all right. Just go slowly."

 

Sherlock raises one eyebrow at her but slows the roll of his hips and slides forward until he is buried within her before he pauses again. Irene allows herself a moment before nodding. Perhaps it's just been too long since she properly used any toys. Lately, she's been rather enjoying making her partners get her off with their mouths. An image of Sherlock's considerable talents with his mouth flashes through her mind, and she's surprised by how arousing the visual is.

 

Bracing himself on one forearm, Sherlock begins to move again, his other hand already sliding purposefully across her body. Irene gasps as he pinches her nipples with just the right amount of torque before skimming his fingers lightly down her stomach to press across her hips, and realizes that he is playing her body much like a musical instrument, strumming her higher.

 

She settles her eyes on his face and allows herself to revel openly in the concentration she finds there. He is watching her reactions with narrowed eyes, fingers clamoring to dig another gasp or shiver out of her, the entirety of his focus devoted to bringing her pleasure. It's refreshing and intoxicating and probably part of the problem. "What do you think about when you bring yourself off?"

 

Sherlock blinks, looking almost dazed and perhaps a bit annoyed that she has interrupted his concentration. But he answers her all the same. "The most efficient means to elicit pleasurable sensations, culminating in release."

 

Irene bites her lip. She suddenly has a nearly irrepressible urge to show him why that is exactly the wrong way to go about self-pleasure. But then she imagines she'll get her chance for that later. "And what are you thinking of now?"

 

Sherlock answers almost immediately, though his hands and hips have hardly stopped moving. Such a multitasker. And oh, how she wants to test those capabilities. "I am reviewing an extensive mental catalogue of what will bring you pleasure and comparing your reactions to those previously observed in order to calculate the most likely standard response."

 

Irene purses her lips. As delicious as that answer is, she knows from experience that it is difficult to reach your own release when your focus is consumed with someone else's. "And don't you think that might be part of the problem?" She doesn't wait for his rejoinder, raking her nails gently down his back and watching his shiver. "Focus on eliciting pleasurable sensations. I'll tell you what I need."

 

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock's look shifts from a measured consideration of her idea to something that is entirely smug. She wouldn't have expected it out of him in the bedroom but she definitely likes it. "I already know what you need." And he shifts his hips just so, unerringly pressing against her G-spot. Irene moans and Sherlock's smirk momentarily widens before he tramps down any emotion on his face. "But as you wish."

 

And then he is unrepentantly pounding into her, keeping the angle such that he still manages to hit that spot with every upward stroke, even as he seeks his own release. Irene is powerless to do much more than roll her hips up against his, keening, her nails digging into his shoulders and her head pressed back against the pillow. Apparently, this is some sort of compromise. And damn him - for once, Irene finds herself appreciating a compromise more than getting her way.

 

It's rougher than she's used to - it's been a long time since her partners dared to be this harsh with her - and Irene has forgotten how much she loves it. She's a dominatrix - she is well aware that the edge of pain and pleasure is a fine border that is just begging to be crossed again and again and again.

 

Sherlock does seem to be taking her command seriously. His free arm moves under her thigh to press her leg up against her chest, his grip not gentle in the slightest. The new angle pushes him deeper still, and he drapes his body low across hers as their hips roll ever faster. The hard, sweat-slicked planes of his body are pressed against her skin; she can feel his muscles bunching and straining as he moves, his soft grunts muffled against her shoulder. Irene moves one hand to his hair, dragging his mouth over hers to nip and lick and suck at. Sherlock acquiesces to her attack almost immediately, opening his mouth and parrying his tongue against hers, even as his hips begin to stutter and lose their perfect rhythm.

 

Irene pulls him tighter against her with one leg, releasing her grip on his shoulder to slide her fingers between them and to her clit. Sherlock pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, and the smoldering there is enough to make her drag him back for another sloppy kiss as they both begin to fall apart around one another.

 

Irene comes with a shriek that she feeds into Sherlock's mouth, biting down on his lip hard enough to taste blood; his hips slam against hers in a hot slick press until his own low groan signals his release.

 

They share a few gulps of air before Sherlock pulls out of her and rolls off to the side, almost before she has managed to catch her breath enough to move. They lay there in silence, not touching, until the sweat has dried from their skin and their breathing is approximating normality. Irene turns toward Sherlock, propping herself up on one elbow. She regards him with her own raised eyebrow and smug expression. Sprawled out naked across her bed, Irene takes the opportunity to observe him in repose. She's becoming accustomed to seeing Sherlock naked, but she enjoys the leisure she currently has as she rakes her eyes over the still quivering muscles and hard pale planes of his body.

 

She finds herself appreciating the view rather unexpectedly. Or, perhaps not so unexpected - she is already unduly intrigued by the mystery of this man, and she has a great eye for beauty in unexpected places. She prides herself on being something of an art curator of beautiful people. And Sherlock is certainly beautiful, in a striking, otherworldly and decidedly masculine way.

 

He responds to her unasked question, his eyes still on the ceiling when she darts her own up to check. "It was different."

 

Irene nods to herself. His answers are always unexpected but enticing - he is a mystery that she simply has to solve. Besides, this is not about her ego; Irene's confidence in her skills is extensive. Flattery would be meaningless in this context. "You didn't find me distracting, then?"

 

Sherlock finally turns to face her, his lips curling into a smirk even as his eyes race across her as though he cannot quite figure her out but is trying desperately to. "Oh, I found you terribly distracting. But you were neither obvious nor inconsistent."

 

"Good." Her responding grin is positively wicked, and Irene makes no attempt to hide it. She relaxes back into the bed, distinctly pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated the condom issue. Again, none of their interactions are meant to mirror anything like a professional scene a dominatrix might have. The idiots are whatever passes for their version of dating and they don't even know it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then I presume that it is my turn to choose tonight, Mr. Holmes."

Irene watches his undressing ritual, his coat and blazer folded neatly over the arm of the chair. She waits until his fingers move to the buttons of his shirt before speaking. "Now that we've covered the basics, what else did you have in mind?"

 

His hands pause fractionally but, when Sherlock meets her eyes, there is a delightful smirk tugging at his mouth. "A creative range, I assure you."

 

"Mmm," Irene drags out the sound into almost a moan, his eyes snapping to hers again. She steps closer, her hands reaching back for the zip to her dress. "Then I presume that it is my turn to choose tonight, Mr. Holmes."

 

Sherlock's hands pause fractionally at the sharp way she enunciates his name, his nostrils flaring and pupils widening in pleasure. Oh, yes, she is so going to enjoy training him. The smirk does not leave his lips, his voice purposefully bored to mask the physiological changes neither of them have missed. "If you wish."

 

It is not a question and it does not require an answer. Irene steps back, slipping her arms out of her dress and letting the fabric fall to her waist. She moves to slide it past her hips, but Sherlock has followed her, his large hands splaying over her hips and his shirt dangling half open from where he's abandoned his task. "Let me?"

 

Irene nods, pleased at the slight hesitation of the question, in sharp contrast from last week's demand. She lets her hands fall away and feels her own breath hitch as he drags the fabric over her suspenders and down her legs, his palms skimming across her skin and stockings.

 

He kneels between her legs, carefully lifting her stockinged feet from her heels one at a time to free them from her dress. Her feet slip slightly on the floor, her stance wide to accommodate the pile of her heels and dress between them. Irene is left clad in only her bra, suspenders and stockings. She'd purposefully left off her knickers to see Sherlock's reaction.

 

Sherlock straightens, and she thinks he might stand; instead, his hands slide back up her legs to grip her arse, his mouth moving to close over her bared sex. Irene gasps, her hips arching into his touch and one of her hands gripping his hair for balance as his tongue traces across sensitive flesh with a thorough determination that makes her legs weak.

 

Irene tightens her grip in his hair and tugs until she can drag his head back. He makes a pretty sight: throat tilted back by her hand in his hair, his mouth and chin slick in the light, glaring at her for interrupting him. "Bed," Irene demands, not loosening her grip.

 

She tugs until he rises to avoid losing any of his hair. Once he is standing, she steps into him, arching up on her tiptoes until she can lick his face clean of her arousal and feel his pressing into her stomach through his trousers. Irene kisses him, quick and hard, and then releases his hair, stepping back and turning toward the bed.

 

Sherlock moves quickly. She has barely drawn back the covers and settled herself across the sheets before the bed dips with Sherlock's weight. A quick glance confirms that his clothing is scattered across the floor from his haste.

 

With another, she might warn her partner to stay still. She doubts Sherlock needs such obvious instruction. Irene appraises him, spread out for her pleasure, and allows a wicked smirk to grace her lips. Sherlock's eyes follow her as she rises to her knees and crawls across him, watching as his muscles twitch under her not-quite there touch. She bends her head and just brushes her lips over his, tantalizing but brief before she withdraws again, watching with satisfaction the way his lips start to follow hers before he catches himself.

 

Irene settles across Sherlock's thighs, tracing her nails across the exposed skin of his abdomen and running along the vein of his erect cock. A shudder runs through him at her touch and Irene feels her grin sharpen. She watches him carefully as she shifts forward, dragging her sex across his cock and unable to suppress her own shiver of anticipation. "Oh, the things I could do to you. Shall I show you some?"

 

"By all means - teach me," Sherlock challenges, voice steady and hinting at sarcasm.

 

Oh, she aches to smack the smirk off of his face. But it is exactly that sort of challenge that is so enticing. If she were to permanently bend him to her will, Irene imagines it would be with a hollow satisfaction.

 

As fetching as he looks on his knees, he's not ready for all that yet.

 

Irene learnt long ago that she doesn't _need_ to dominate someone to have control. It's just so rare to find a challenge worth subtler methods. Rarer still for her to enjoy herself so thoroughly in the process.

 

She wipes the smirk off his face the traditional way - by taking hold of his cock and sinking, torturously slowly, onto it, her muscles stretching and giving way to the invasion. Irene squeezes him internally and watches his eyes roll back into his head with satisfaction.

 

Only then does she start to move.

 

It doesn't take her long at all to find the angle and rhythm that will leave them both gasping with pleasure at every stroke. Irene braces her hands across Sherlock's chest and watches his fists curl around her sheets, knuckles white as his hips arch up helplessly to meet hers.

 

Irene holds them both there, caught on the plateau before orgasm, withholding that final pleasure greedily, demanding ever more of their bodies. She never can quite resist delicious excess.

 

Sherlock breaks first, his hands finding their way to her hips at last, inducing pinpricks of pleasure-pain as his fingers dig into her skin.

 

Shifting her weight forward, Irene nips at his lips, her breasts brushing across his chest as she grinds her clit down against him with every stroke, muscles holding him tight inside her. The pleasure ignites in flames licking across her nerves, exploding all at once as Irene closes her eyes and gives into the force of it.

 

She can feel Sherlock's stilted gasp as he follows her helplessly over, his body taut under hers and his grip tightening over her hips. Irene presses her lips to his and tastes him, stealing his breath until her own lungs are an aching distraction from her pounding heart.

 

Sherlock is still gasping for breath, grip slackening as Irene levers off of him and rolls onto her back, trailing one hand across his jaw in a gesture that is more ownership than tenderness. "There now, have I schooled you, Mr. Holmes?"

 

He turns toward her, teeth dragging gently across her fingertips before Irene lets her hand fall away. "Indeed. Quite a thorough lesson."

 

There's something in his eyes that is stubbornly defiant and indolently pleased. There's no danger there of hollow satisfaction. Rather, Irene finds the waning pleasure and promising repartee intensely, uniquely gratifying. "Then I'll presume you were paying attention."

 

Sherlock reaches for the bedside table drawer, returning with her illicit stash of cigarettes and plucking two from the carton. "I always do. Though you're welcome to quiz me, if you require verification."

 

Irene accepts the lit fag, inhaling as she considers. She's lounging in bed, indulging in post-coital nicotine and banter without any underhand agendas. It's something of a novelty and a dangerously addictive one at that. Irene lets her gaze linger over Sherlock, uncharacteristically at ease and apparently unaware of that fact. It makes her uncomfortable to feel so comfortable. "I doubt you're up for it," Irene observes a bit sharply.

 

Sherlock shrugs, unconcerned. "Perhaps another time, then." He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rises fluidly, stretching before bending to gather his discarded clothing, finishing his cigarette as he dresses.

 

As soon as space is restored between them, Irene feels more in her element. He's leaving, as she would expect. "Count on it," she promises, in control again.

 

Sherlock pauses just inside the door to favor Irene with an equally wicked grin, and then he's gone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I was thinking something more vertical this time."

It is only once they've both shed their clothing that Sherlock hesitates, his expression inscrutable.

 

Irene runs her fingers across the tense muscles corded at his shoulders, curious.

 

"I was thinking something more vertical this time."

 

"Can you lift me?" He scoops her up with frightening ease and Irene finds herself pinned between his body and the wall. She swallows hard, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. "All right, then."

 

Though Irene would never admit it, this position is something of a novelty to her. A hazard of mostly female lovers meant that vertical did not require both feet to leave the ground. Regardless of the physical strength of her varied lovers, Irene does not typically enjoy or allow her trust to be placed so completely in another.

 

To do so now, without even hesitating, sends a surprising thrum of desire snaking through her body.

 

Sherlock shifts her weight carefully, freeing one hand to snake between them. His fingertips just brush against her clit, even that slight motion pooling desire further between her legs, before she catches his wrist.

 

He stops at her touch but glances up at her, brow furrowed in question.

 

"You don't have to," Irene murmurs, lips at his ear and heart in her throat at the admission.

 

"But it's rude," Sherlock counters, as though this were obvious, his fingers resuming slow, enticing circles of her clit.

 

It feels like weakness to admit that she's more than ready for him already, with just the slightest of touches between them. Still, there's the coiling heat low in her belly and the novelty of the position to consider, and Irene finds herself too impatient to care. She drags his fingers lower, their fingers just brushing across her slick folds. "It's unnecessary," she repeats, withdrawing her hand.

 

Sherlock's breath catches on a low growl against her neck, his fingers spreading her open to run through the obvious wetness there. He doesn't protest again.

 

They shift together in unison, and then it's the thick head of his cock nudging at her, and Sherlock muffles a groan against her skin as Irene slowly lowers herself over him. There's a delicious stretch as he fills her, the position and gravity driving him ever deeper, and Irene drags his lips to hers so that the embarrassing, whimpering sound she makes is swallowed by his mouth.

 

Bracing her hands on his shoulders, Irene begins to move slowly, a delicious burn spreading throughout her, the scrape of the wall at her back as she slides against it and him. Sherlock lets her explore at her own pace, his fingers gripping her thighs and his head moving to mouth at her neck and breasts when she breaks their kiss.

 

The friction leaves her nerves tingling and muscles fluttering, pinned securely between Sherlock and the wall. Sweat is already starting to bead across their skin, she can feel it gathering between them, slicking the brush of their bodies as Irene picks up speed, letting gravity and Sherlock take her in their grasp.

 

Her head feels light with exertion and arousal. Her clit is bumping his abdomen and her head is bumping the wall as she moves, and everything with him is somehow more novel and intense - more honest - that Irene finds herself falling apart in no time at all.

 

Thighs quivering, heart racing, Irene lets Sherlock press her back into the wall and take over, his hips arching and his cock driving into her until they're both gasping and moaning, and he spills inside her with a ragged sound ripped low from his throat, his head buried against her neck.

 

They disentangle carefully, sliding down the wall and stretching muscles that ache in delicious ways. Irene has to fight uncharacteristically long to catch her breath, letting the wall bear her weight rather than admit that standing without that support might prove difficult. Sherlock rests next to her against the wall, his eyes on the ceiling and his breathing ragged.

 

Irene turns her head to watch him, unselfconscious under her perusal. His muscles are still shaky and his abdomen slick from their exertions. "Was it as you expected?" It's perhaps a bit obvious, but she's curious; unused to not being an expert in every activity and position.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're never as expected." He turns toward her then, gaze raking over her razor sharp, piercing all her defenses. One of his eyebrows rises. "And for you?"

 

"You didn't drop me," she teases archly, and it's more of an answer than any more obvious one would be as she pushes off the wall and reaches for her dressing gown. "It's a start."

 

Sherlock follows her lead, moving to gather and don his clothing with a half smirk tugging at his lips. "Well then, perhaps repetition is called for."

 

Irene feels a bit of a thrill at the low promise inherent in his voice. "So keen to abandon the rest of your experiments already, Mr. Holmes?"

 

He's ready to leave, clad again in his sharp suit, coat over his arm.

 

"Not a chance."

 

It's a start, certainly. The start of what, she is less certain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock crosses to her toy chest and lifts the lid, regarding the treasures inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the only reasonable summary/warning/way to tag this chapter is: riding crop.
> 
> Thanks to Beverly for helping me debate all the things.
> 
> *ETA: I changed the chapter summary. I really should've just put "riding crop" and had done with it.

Sherlock crosses to her toy chest and lifts the lid, regarding the treasures inside. He reaches down and emerges with her riding crop. "This today, I think."

 

Irene watches him test the suppleness of the leather from where she reclines on the bed. She arches an eyebrow, curious. "For you or me?"

 

"Me."

 

He flips the riding crop end over end and hands it to her. His eyes are already dark and Irene fears hers are not much better as she snaps the leather against her palm.

 

Control is something she is an expert at wielding. Irene's voice whips out like the promise of leather on flesh, solid and demanding. "Lie down."

 

It sends a gratified thrill through her to watch Sherlock respond instantly. He lies on his back, his arms at his sides, and watches her expectantly.

 

She doesn't waste any time, rising to her knees and arching the riding crop hard across his thigh before he has a chance to prepare himself. She's rewarded with a surprised grunt, and Irene lets her lips curve into a grin. "Don't move," she warns sharply, trailing the edge of the riding crop teasingly across his thighs and stomach before running the leather across his already hard cock.

 

It twitches under her ministrations and Sherlock watches her warily until she drags the leather away to bring down across his abdomen. His muscles ripple but he does not flinch, and Irene is pleased at his restraint. Not that she plans to show any. "You have been quite naughty, Mr. Holmes," she teases, "shall I punish you?"

 

When he fails to respond immediately, she brings the crop down again, harder. "Yes," he grits out, but there's an edge of amusement at his tone that says she's behaving exactly as he'd expected and she intends to wipe it out of him.

 

"Do you want me to hurt you?" She brushes the riding crop across him again, feather-light in contrast to the demand in her voice.

 

He responds immediately this time and there is a different inflection to his voice. "Yes."

 

"Do you want me to hit you?" The riding crop raps across his other thigh.

 

"Yes," his voice is lower now.

 

Irene leans over him, not quite touching, her voice softer but no less sharp. "Do want me to make you bleed?"

 

He breathes in sharply through his nose. "Yes."

 

Closer to the perfect response. "Yes, Mistress," she corrects, bringing the crop down squarely over his left nipple and relishing the way he hisses through his teeth at the contact.

 

"Yes, Ms. Adler," he responds, both deferring and boldly defiant.

 

She should whip that reaction out of him, but it is surprisingly thrilling to hear his voice low and curled around her name. Intimate in a way no one else has dared. Instead, Irene licks her lips in a way that promises his defiance has not been forgotten. "Wrong choice, Mr. Holmes."

 

Her next stroke is feather-light, teasing, designed to throw him off guard. She alternates the strength of her strokes at her whim and in response to the tremble of his body, careful not to fall into a pattern that he can anticipate. Words are no longer required to make a point.

 

She crisscrosses his stomach and chest and thighs with marks. Light ones, just barely blooming red; harder ones already deepening into purple; thin red lines from the edge of the crop, not quite hard enough to bleed.

 

He breathes in hard through his nose, trying not to flinch in anticipation of her strokes and biting back whatever cries want to escape.

 

Irene runs the edge of the crop across the marks littering his body, admiring the masterpiece she's made of him. His cock is hard and leaking and his fists are tangled in her sheets. He's sweating slightly, his muscles jumping and trembling under the stroke of leather.

 

"You're so close already. I could make you come like this," she promises, low and firm as she trails the crop across his balls and cock, his precum shining wetly against the leather as she brushes it over the head. "But I think I shall make you beg me, instead."

 

Sherlock's eyes track the riding crop as she continues to tease him, pulling back just at the last second to bring it sharply across the sensitive skin near his hip. He grits his teeth. "I won't beg."

 

"Then you won't come," Irene smirks, swinging her leg across him until she is hovering over him, her knees on either side of his hips.

 

Not relinquishing her grip on the riding crop, Irene grips his cock firmly, shifting until she can sink down over him in an agonizingly slow press. Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head and she smacks him smartly across the chest to draw his attention back to her. There is something wild in the way his eyes snap to hers, wide and blown dark.

 

Irene shivers as she rises over him, keeping their gaze locked as she sets the pace to her liking: long, deep strokes. She can feel him, hard and throbbing inside her, and her own blood is racing and pounding through the heat of her body. It's delicious to have him at her mercy, to whip him and use him and dominate him as she pleases. To watch the way his arms flex to reach for her and the way he forces himself to stay still under her. His hips rise to meet hers anyway, grunts and gasps escaping the thin line of his lips.

 

Irene moans wantonly, holding back nothing as she keeps the threat of the riding crop omnipresent and brings her free hand to her clit. She strikes him only gently, aware that his control is frayed and can only be pushed so far. Oh, but she revels in pushing it. She can feel herself just on the edge of her own orgasm already, caught up in the heady power she so loves to wield. "I could leave you like this. Bring myself off and leave you hot and wanting until you beg me to touch you again. Or you may beg me now. Either way, you will beg. Do you want to come, Mr. Holmes? Say please."

 

" _Please_ ," and it's low and rough and more sarcastic than begging.

 

His voice coalesces the heat curling within her and Irene thinks she should deny him for that alone, even as she feels her orgasm washing over her. For begging without begging. For refusing to submit completely to her. But then, she's never submitted fully to him either. And that is exactly what makes this whole experiment so addicting - having someone in her bed who both matches her and challenges her at every turn.

 

Her legs tremble as she rocks through her orgasm, both of them straining to maintain control. Irene takes a shaky breath to steady her voice into a command before she meets his eyes. "Now you may come."

 

Irene strikes him sharply as she speaks, the leather hard against the skin of his abdomen and her hips demanding over his. Sherlock cries out at last, his body arching as he gasps and spills into her.

 

The riding crop finally falls from her grip, discarded on the bed as Irene stills, giving them both a moment to recover. Her legs still shake as she levers herself off of Sherlock, twisting to lie back next to him as she struggles to calm her breathing and pulse. They are both a sticky mess. Perhaps a bath is in order.

 

"I think you fractured a rib," Sherlock doesn't sound even slightly concerned over the possibility.

 

Irene laughs, genuinely amused, and Sherlock grunts as she rolls to her side and pokes the particularly livid mark over his ribs. "Oh I didn't hit you nearly hard enough for that. It's merely a bruise."

 

Sherlock meets her critical gaze with a lazy smirk. "Perhaps next time. You didn't even make me bleed."

 

"I didn't have to," Irene responds imperiously, thrilling at the easy banter and delightful promises contained therein. She trails one nail along his bruised ribs and across the other welts scattering his chest and abdomen, enjoying the way his skin jumps and shivers at her touch.

 

"No, you didn't," Sherlock agrees, something flickering behind his eyes. He reaches up and draws her closer, stalling her reply with a deep, lingering kiss, filled with all the unrestrained passion that he bit back earlier.

 

Irene matches him with a moan, her hands digging into his skin even as his slide greedily across her. They kiss breathlessly for long moments rather than parting, even though Irene knows they are both raw and exhausted already, and it is harder than ever to imagine that whatever is between them is merely an experiment or distraction.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere early in their dalliance, they settled into an alternating routine of who chose the night's activities, though it's a veneer at best since neither is ever completely in charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - RL ate me. I'll catch up this week, so chapters will post quicker until I'm all caught up.
> 
> As always, every chapter is as explicit as it says on the tin.... which is very.

Her dress is elaborate, polished and elegant to match her carefully twisted hair. Designed to throw him off balance.

 

Sherlock is dressed in his usual attire. He doesn't blink at her extravagant costume, merely raking his gaze across her in a single quick movement before arching one eyebrow and turning to shed his clothing with the same practiced ease of any other night. Perhaps she should be more concerned that they have a predictable, comfortable ritual of undressing. Perhaps that's why she felt the need to be so overdressed in the first place.

 

Slipping out of his shoes and sock feet neatly, Sherlock rises and starts on the buttons to his shirt, popping them open with obvious dexterity. "My turn to choose, then."

 

"If you like," Irene shrugs delicately, trying to decide whether she should be annoyed or impressed by his deduction.

 

Somewhere early in their dalliance, they settled into an alternating routine of who chose the night's activities, though it's a veneer at best since neither is ever completely in charge. It _should_ annoy Irene but she finds the challenge strangely delightful.

 

Sherlock takes his time shedding the last of his clothing and does not turn to Irene again until he is standing before her naked. His hands come up to rest lightly against the silk and chiffon of her dress, waiting for permission to undo her.

 

Irene nods once, a barely perceptible gesture but one that Sherlock reads easily.

 

He takes his time stripping her, fingers unerringly finding the hidden clasps and zips that slowly divest her of first the dress and then her lingerie, selected to be as opulent and difficult to remove as possible.

 

Still, Irene does not pull away from his touch. Does not demand an answer to his choice for their night, tempting though it is. They're both being deliberate tonight, and nothing quite so obvious would do. The stroke of his fingers against her skin as he bares her is equally deliberate, combining with the heavy silence to leave her nerves aching for more.

 

He withdraws once they're both naked, his eyes scorching her instead. "On the bed. On your knees."

 

Irene sucks in a sharp breath at the suggestion, echoed in clipped tones that are full of promise. He's taking after her already; a quick study. Irene arches an eyebrow but moves toward the bed, settling on her knees in the middle, facing the headboard and leaving her back toward Sherlock. She _likes_ the suspense, as he's doubtless already discerned.

 

The bed dips with his weight, and then he's settling behind her on his knees, his hands drawing her back against his body. Sherlock rests his chin on her shoulder, his breath leaving gooseflesh skittering across her neck as he runs his hands along her front, both of them clearly watching.

 

He already knows her body intimately; all her most sensitive spots mapped somewhere behind his eyelids. Irene has to remind herself not to bite back the gasps that escape as she writhes back against him, grinding her arse into his erection in retaliation as he plays her body expertly.

  
When his hands finally settle between her legs, Irene doesn't bother to worry about the sharp breath or needy sound that escapes, entranced by watching his fingers part her folds and dance perfectly across her clit. He's watching too, intent, his breath puffing out fast and hard against her skin as he sinks a long finger inside her.

 

They rock together like that, his free hand roaming her body, unerringly seeking out every place that makes her moan. His other hand is occupied between her legs, thumb at her clit and a second finger joining the first to thrust inside her in a steady, slow rhythm that strokes the low, coiled pleasure into a relentless, roaring pulse, throbbing where he touches her.

 

Irene rakes her nails along his side, tossing her head until she can nip at his jaw, her body flush and trembling already. Sherlock growls, low and dangerous, his hands twisting just so, and Irene teeters over the ledge of her orgasm, the pleasure exploding, tingling, aching through her limbs.

 

She doesn't give herself more than a moment to recover, keenly aware of the tension in Sherlock's frame, rigid behind her. "And now?"

 

Sherlock withdraws, settling his hand between her shoulder blades, a heavy weight pressing firmly until she lowers her head and chest to the bed, supporting herself on her elbows. She rests her head against a pillow and cranes her neck to watch him.

 

He wedges his knee between her thighs, spreading her legs further, and Irene allows him to do so, still catching her breath even as a new thrill starts to skitter down her spine.

 

She'd not expected him to be quite so bold, but then it's hardly a surprise. Irene has been waiting eagerly to see how his experiments would evolve with the preliminaries out of the way.

 

The blunt head of his cock nudges at her slick folds as he finds the right angle, but he makes no move to go further. It's that same careful respect he showed earlier, hands pausing over the ties to her dress, but there's no place for it in the bedroom. Irene makes a note that it's high time she taught him the finer points of safe words and taking control without asking permission first. It is not the moment for words though, so Irene lets her body speak for her, rocking her hips back and taking him inside of her with a decisive motion.

 

There's no hesitation as Sherlock drives forward, filling her completely, and they both groan appreciatively, her still sensitive nerves coming alight at the sensation. He holds her in place with one hand between her shoulders and the other at her hip.

 

It's a tenuous position, leaving her without much room to counter his thrusts, her body arched to his liking. It also lets him thrust even deeper, his strokes quickly picking up speed and force, and Irene is impressed at his control even as she rails against it, hands gripping the bedding.

 

The hand at her hip tightens, dragging her up to meet his hard thrusts even as Sherlock keeps Irene pinned to the mattress, his hips pounding into hers as he leans his weight carefully over her for a deeper angle.

 

His hand on her back is dangerous - large and heavy and strong over her spine. _He_ is dangerous. Irene feels a hard spike of delight run through her at the realization. He could hurt her, here, like this.

 

"Harder," she demands, voice distinct even around the pillow muffling her face and breathing. She's had considerable practice.

 

His hands and hips oblige her, hard enough that she'll have bruises running along her body in a few hours, if they're not setting in already.

 

Irene arches her back and hips into his, pushing her body to its limits; feeling that spike of fear and thrill and pleasure coalescing at the base of her spine and spreading through her belly and sex. She clenches around him, hands clutching the bedding, body on fire with a delicious pleasure just edged in pain.

 

Sherlock bears down on her. "Yes?"

 

"Yes," she agrees, her whole body beginning to tremble against him.

 

When she comes, it is with the sweet sting of submission singing through her blood. He is right on her heels, spilling into her with one last hard thrust, his weight tipping forward and crushing her into the mattress, still buried inside her.

 

His hand comes up to grip her jaw, forcing her head to the side and back for a rough, poorly angled kiss that is almost sweet for its aggression. He's checking on her without asking, tasting and testing for her responses.

 

Irene slides one hand free of the bedding and trails it along his side lazily, reassuring him even as her tongue twines and teases his.

 

She's indolent and strangely willing to drift off, even though she knows she shouldn't with his weight atop her. Sherlock will roll them over, she's certain. She trusts him.

 

That thought would be far more alarming if her mind hadn't already surrendered to sleep as easily as she'd surrendered to him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes her absolutely ages to get ready for their appointments.

It takes her absolutely ages to get ready for their appointments. She tries on everything in her wardrobe, goes shopping, tries it all on again, and even calls in Kate for a second opinion. But Kate's opinion is merely flattery - she is such a sycophant - utterly useless. The girl is infatuated with her, Irene knows. She thinks she'd take her to bed, if she weren't so completely distracted.

 

But she is. Completely distracted. This thing between her and Sherlock is upending her normal routines. Oh, she still misbehaves at every opportunity. But she finds herself looking forward to their Thursday rendezvous with ever-increasing impatience.

 

In defiance or ritual, Irene's outfits become increasingly elaborate. She knows better than to think she could shock Sherlock or find something too clever for him to undo, but everything in her rebels at the idea of waiting on him weekly in little more than a dressing gown. It seems too simple, and she knows they both enjoy the challenge.

 

Besides - Irene does so enjoy dressing up.

 

Inevitably, it takes Sherlock no time at all to undress her once he arrives. All her carefully chosen silks and suspenders scattered haphazardly across the floor. Some days she makes him wait, but even on those occasions Irene finds herself impatient to disrobe. Perhaps the wait between Thursdays is long enough already, not that Irene intends to analyze that thought too closely.

 

He watches her attentively as she strips - slipping out of her lingerie with as much deliberate care as she'd spent donning it. She unhooks her brassiere last, dangling the silk and lace from her fingertips before letting it drop, forgotten, to the floor with the rest of their clothing.

 

Sherlock's hands trace across her bared form, drawing her onto his lap. "I prefer you like this."

 

Irene settles neatly astride him, one eyebrow arching in amusement. He has a lap full of a very naked woman, after all. "I'm quite certain you do."

 

But he's apparently caught her meaning. His hands tighten reflexively around her. "No. It's just - I prefer you without all the costumes. You don't need them."

 

Irene smothers the smile that wants to twist her lips. Sometimes, like now, he looks at her as though he can see through all her carefully constructed masks. It's exhilarating and disconcerting, so she does what she does best - turns the tables. "And I prefer the costumes. They add mystery."

 

"Everything with you is a mystery."

 

Irene inhales sharply, unable to tear her eyes from his. She offers a brittle little laugh in an attempt to recover herself, as though his admission wasn't as unexpected as him. "Then, by all means, do be sure to _fully_ enjoy the mystique, Mr. Holmes."

 

She takes him immediately in hand, shifting forward on her knees until she can sink deliberately, tortuously slowly onto his cock. Irene stills there until Sherlock's fingers tense against her skin, the minute betrayal giving away how desperately he wants her. Irene arches one eyebrow and waits.

 

Sherlock keeps his eyes pinned to hers as he pointedly settles his hands against the arms of the chair, deceptively nonchalant.

 

He's surrendering control to her without being asked, and the feeling of complete dominance zips through Irene with hot impatience. When Irene finally moves against him, she begins slowly, though - she has every intention of teasing them both until neither of them can stand it and he's itching to reach for her again. Whether or not she'll let him, she's not yet decided.

 

It's a battle that Sherlock is destined to lose, of course. Irene never fights fair if she can help it. She rolls her hips over him, her body arching and bouncing with her movements, and Sherlock's eyes slip from hers to fixate on her breasts. Irene indulges in a toothy smile, upping her pace and keeping her hands on the back of the chair rather than touching him anywhere but where they're joined.

 

His hands grip the arms of the chair until his knuckles turn white, but he does not reach for her.

 

Pleased, Irene squeezes him with her inner muscles, watching his eyes roll back in his head with satisfaction. She does it again on her next down-stroke, eliciting a ragged groan from him.

 

Irene sets her face in a hard line, fighting the smirk that wants form on her lips. "Do I have to gag you?"

 

Sherlock's eyes flash with confusion and annoyance. He scoffs, "You're welcome to try," but she sees the intrigue flit across his features.

 

"Perhaps next time, if you're good," she promises, resting one finger over his full lips. "Hush now."

 

She can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, and she thinks he's enjoying this game as much as she is, even as he glares at her.

 

Instead of returning her hand to the back of the chair, Irene trails it down Sherlock's chest, pausing to pinch and twist each of his nipples, watching the way his muscles jump and his fingers dig into the arms of the chair each time she touches him.

 

He doesn't speak again though, breathing hard through his nose with the effort of keeping quiet, of not reaching for her. It's better than having him bound and gagged because he _could_ disobey her but he won't.

 

It's intoxicating enough that Irene picks up her pace, pushing them both closer to the breaking point, just denying them both that delicious rush of pleasure that she can feel zinging and throbbing under her skin. She trails her hand between them until she can stroke her clit, her knuckles brushing Sherlock's abdomen and cock.

 

He takes a stilted breath, eyes blown wide as he watches her.

 

Irene lets a sharp smile grace her lips before opening her mouth around a moan, eyes locked with his as she brings herself off while she rides him. Daring him to snap and reach for her.

 

The open hunger in his gaze is enough to send her over the edge, rolling her hips faster over his and succumbing to the building ecstasy without the faintest remorse, careful not to lose her rhythm.

 

He's close to breaking, she can tell, his body tense and straining with the effort of holding back. It sends a delicious aftershock of a shiver through her, imagining what he might do if she pushed him just past that point - past where she can control him.

 

Not certain her voice will hold firm, Irene leans forward, tilting his chin roughly up and kissing him, her tongue demanding entrance past his tightly clenched lips. He moans into her mouth, a ragged, needy sound.

 

Irene nips at his bottom lip before she pulls back, shifting her other hand pointedly from the back of the chair to his shoulder.

 

His hands are on her before she bothers to speak, reading her gesture for the allowance it is. He drags her roughly to him, fingers digging into her skin and hips thrusting hard in counterpoint to hers.

 

Irene gasps and leans forward, demanding another wild kiss, teeth and tongues clashing. She'd expected him to come immediately, but he always surprises her with his control, pushing them both further still.

 

The shift in angle sends sparks shocking through her body, her clit brushing his abdomen and a hard edge to the roll of their hips that brings the simmering pleasure back to a rolling wave, threatening to drag her under.

  
Sherlock thrusts up forcefully, hauling her closer still with his hands at her arse, and Irene squeezes him internally in retaliation with each stroke, wanting to break his control before he breaks hers.

 

Two more thrusts and they're both over the edge, tearing their mouths from one another for jagged moans as their hips stutter to a standstill.

 

When she can muster the energy to lift her head from his neck, Irene lets herself indulge in a smug look at Sherlock's unfocused, dazed expression.

 

"There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

 

Sherlock drawls, "Wasn't hard exactly what you were aiming for?"

 

Irene laughs genuinely, shifting pointedly in his lap but making no move to get up, even though her cigarettes are, regrettably, well out of reach. Sherlock's hands are still absently stroking her back, perhaps unconsciously. " _Obvious_ , Mr. Holmes."

 

He favors her with an indulgent, indecipherable look. "Yes, well, I'll leave the mystery to you. I prefer to analyze the facts."

 

Her breath catches. "And what are the facts, exactly?"

 

Sherlock leans his head back and smirks, hands still stroking across her skin. "Obvious."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What would you like to try tonight?"
> 
> "Everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not quite on the right posting schedule. Sorry all. I'm working on getting back into a Friday schedule.
> 
> In the meantime, with this chapter, we're officially halfway through this fic.

Sherlock enters at a brisk clip, barely glancing at her before he is taking the stairs to her room two at a time. Irene locks the door firmly before she follows at a more sedate pace.

 

Sherlock has already shed his coat, blazer, loafers and socks, and is standing barefoot in front of her when Irene crosses the threshold. His gaze is dark and intense.

 

Irene lets one eyebrow arch in amusement. She's not used to seeing him want her so openly. "What would you like to try tonight?"

 

"Everything," the word is a low growl of promise that sends lust flicking and curling through her body.

 

Irene keeps her tone teasing as she licks her lips in one precise movement. "Really? I didn't think we had gotten through so much of your list."

 

"Everything so far," Sherlock clarifies.

 

He prowls toward her, pinning her against the door, and suddenly Irene is in no mood to tease him. There is something urgent and dangerous in his eyes - something sharp and wild and uninhibited in a way she didn't think Sherlock was capable of. Irene prides herself on knowing what people want and what they are capable of. But Sherlock - he surprises her - constantly.

 

She undoes the buttons of his shirt quickly, ending at the cuffs and smoothing her hands across his arms as she slides it off. His hands are immediately tugging the sash loose from her dressing gown. He shoves it roughly off her shoulders to pool at her feet, his hands settling loosely around her wrists as he presses them back against the door.

 

It is an intriguing idea but his grip is not nearly tight enough to hold her. Irene slips through Sherlock's arms and settles carefully on her knees, watching his pupils widen at the sight. She offers him a sharp smile, all teeth, and enjoys the way his eyes narrow and nostrils flare. When she strips off his trousers, intrigued, Irene runs her hands over his thighs. He shivers, unusually responsive. "Is this all right?"

 

"Yes."

 

And without further warning, Irene leans forward and takes him in her mouth.

 

He groans appreciatively, his hands holding her hair back tightly and his hips already almost arching into the wicked curl of her tongue around him.

 

She teases him more than she has previously dared, enjoying his uninhibited responses. His hands finally tighten in her hair, pushing her gently but firmly down, and Irene is so delighted by the clear need that she acquiesces, swallowing him down at a heady pace.

 

His hips keep thrusting, driving himself deeper into her mouth at his own pace. Irene lets him twice before she pulls away, sitting back on her heels and pinning him with her gaze.

 

He looks like he knows he should be remorseful but he can't quite manage the emotion. "Did I hurt you?" His breath is ragged.

 

Irene's lip curls. "No. Does that disappoint you?"

 

Sherlock turns his head away, jaw clenched. Irene runs one nail along his thigh, not quite hard enough to draw blood but close. That gets his attention again. "Safe words. Mine is cinnamon. In the eventuality that my mouth is _otherwise occupied_ , three raps," she demonstrates, "means stop."

 

He nods and she has to wait with an expectant look for a second longer for him to respond verbally. "Yes. Of course. And: skull."

 

"Then by all means, do continue," she keeps her eyes on his as she settles forward and slides him back into her mouth.

 

She opens her mouth wide, relaxing her jaw and throat, but not bothering to cover her teeth. He shivers each thrust that her teeth graze the sensitive skin of his cock, his hips arching up in an already jagged rhythm. Irene breathes carefully through her nose, trailing her nails across his thighs and balls and feeling his shiver throughout his whole body.

 

On his next thrust she swallows around him, letting the edge of her teeth slide none-too-gently along the base of his cock. He makes a strangled noise around a groan and spills into her throat, his fingers digging into her scalp and his body shaking.

 

Irene swallows carefully and slides him slowly out of her mouth as she sits back, enjoying his last shudders. She expects his grip to loosen on her hair but he is on her the second she pulls back, hauling her up as he spins them around and pins her against the door.

 

He kisses her once, his tongue demanding entry against her swollen lips and running along the sharp edges of her teeth. She grants him access, twining her tongue around his and relishing the low growl he makes at the taste of himself on her.

 

Sherlock withdraws almost as abruptly as he'd kissed her, and it's on the tip of her tongue to protest before he drops to his knees and presses his face between her legs. He nuzzles her sex with a sinful groan, his nose bumping her clit as his tongue strokes through her folds, and Irene can't suppress a soft keening noise of her own. He is so eager tonight - like he wants to devour her.

 

She lets him drape her leg over his shoulder, curling one hand in his hair and the other against the door for support.

 

His long tongue slides inside her first, stroking against her walls before stiffening to thrust into her, his mouth hot over her sex and his quick breaths puffing against her already sensitive clit. Irene rolls her hips up, her hand tightening over his hair in turnabout. He pulls back as much as he can, his tongue licking hot stripes across her slit instead.

 

Irene cannot suppress a bit of a huff, even around a groan, digging her nails into his scalp and trying to force him back. Sherlock is determined to take control tonight, but she intends to fight him for it. He's even more unpredictable than usual, which is equal parts thrilling and concerning. Both only serve to heighten the arousal flooding through her.

 

Sherlock shifts up to flick his tongue over her clit, two long fingers sliding roughly inside her. Irene shudders at his hard thrusts, his fingers twisting and curling and demanding, and she's already moaning when his lips close over her clit and suck.

 

His teeth nibble roughly on her clit - retaliation for her own teeth earlier she knows - and the sharp pain in counterpoint to his fingers curling up perfectly against her G-spot throws her headlong into her orgasm. Her moan is long and echoing, her fingers digging into Sherlock's scalp and the wood of the door as she writhes against his mouth.

 

Sherlock does not let up or let her come down, even as she tugs roughly, pointedly at his hair. His tongue works her clit more gently but his fingers pump hard against her fluttering walls, keeping her just on that edge of pleasure-pain that leaves her shuddering and gasping.

 

Irene curses creatively - not a habit she often indulges - and she can feel Sherlock's smirk against her sex. He hums something in agreement, the vibration around her clit echoing pleasure through her whole body. On purpose, she's sure - the bastard.

 

Her nails dig into the wood, and she's probably chipping her varnish, and she can't keep up with him, which is frustrating and exhilarating and he clearly has no intention of letting up. Irene arches her hips into his thrusts, feeling herself give in even as she demands more.

 

He doesn't disappoint, his tongue working the oversensitive nerves of her clit as his long fingers try to stretch deeper inside her with every hard thrust. His grip tightens on her thigh and the pads of his fingers curl up into her in time with his tongue flicking against her clit and she's tumbling back over the edge, hot pleasure racing through her body to coalesce between her legs.

 

Sherlock withdraws to watch her, letting her leg slip off his shoulder. Irene tightens her grip in his hair, dragging him roughly to his feet even before she's caught her breath. She meets his eyes deliberately and does not release him, holding him steady as she leans forward and runs her tongue along his face, cleaning off her own glistening juices. The rich tang is mingled with the taste of Sherlock's skin - always a hint of tobacco mixed with London smog and something that is the sharp, raw taste of him.

 

When she has licked up every last trace of her orgasm from his skin, she slides her mouth over his, a deliberate reversal of earlier. He opens for her easily, and she delights in the taste of herself on Sherlock's tongue, her own mouth eager against his. She draws his lower lip into her mouth and bites down until the sharp, coppery tang of his blood joins the flavors racing across her tongue.

 

His cock is hard and heavy against her stomach and he arches into her with a surprised gasp against her mouth. Irene slides her leg over his hip and releases him, her hands sliding down to rake her nails across his back.

 

Sherlock immediately buries his face in her neck, sucking hard at her pulse as his hands slide under her thighs to lift her. Irene lets him slide her up the wall, wrapping her legs around his slim hips and keeping her spine carefully straight. The blunt head of his cock butts against her entrance and she tilts her hips toward his until the angle is right and he is sliding inside her in one smooth, rough motion.

 

Everything today is fast and rough and just the right side of _too much_ , and she'd smack him for his presumption if they didn't both already know perfectly well that she likes it.

 

Irene scratches her nails across his back and shoulders, hard enough that she's sure she's drawing blood. Sherlock's mouth trails down her neck to bite hard at her shoulder in response, his hips driving up into hers. "Harder," she demands.

 

Sherlock stills for a fraction of a second, and then he's obeying her command, his teeth pressing harder against her skin as he deepens his thrusts, harder and faster, his fingers digging into her thighs to add to the bruises already littered there. And then he's lifting her off the wall, holding them both as he rolls his hips and lets gravity drop her hard against him.

 

Irene moans her appreciation, her clit scraping across his pelvic bone with every thrust. She steadies her hands on his shoulders and takes control, her breasts sliding across his sweat-slicked chest as she lifts herself over him. It's a deeper angle and they're both breathing hard and trading moans at the fast rhythm. She can feel Sherlock shaking, his muscles straining against her. "Wall."

 

It is a clear, sharp command, though her breath is ragged at the edges. Sherlock manages, "Not going to drop you," his voice rough and husky against her collarbone.

 

But he shifts his grip on her and slams her forcefully back against the wall. It almost takes the breath out of her and the jolt sets her afire. Sherlock's hips are jerky against hers, his rhythm faltering, and Irene slides one hand between them to rub her clit, her knuckles bumping his abdomen as the blood pounds through her veins and Sherlock pounds into her.

 

She comes hard, her body trembling, pinned between Sherlock and the wall as she moans and curses and shatters.

 

Sherlock's grip tightens and, with two more harsh thrusts, he is right behind her, his head buried at her neck and a strangled moan that might be _Irene_ muffled into her skin.

 

To his credit, he does not drop her. His weight presses them both into the wall for a long moment, their breaths frayed gasps and the racing beat of their hearts echoing between them. At last he slips gently out of her, letting her slide her legs down off his hips as she drops back first to her tiptoes and then to the floor.

 

Sherlock leans against the wall at her side, struggling to catch his breath. His hair is wild but his eyes are calculating as they run across her, cataloguing what she is sure is an impressive litany of marks. Nothing too _not good_ , she knows. His back, however, must be afire. Normally, she would offer to fix him up, often rather erotic in its own right.

 

Instead, Irene pushes off the door and crosses to scoop up her discarded dressing gown, taking a moment to secure it with her back to him. Irene runs her fingers through the worst of the knots in her hair as an excuse while she calms her breathing. Her voice is steady when she rounds on him. "What are you on?"

 

Sherlock regards her lazily, raising one eyebrow and deliberately pretending he has no idea what she's talking about. He's not even bothered to start dressing. "On?"

 

"Don't play games with me. Your pupils were blown when you came in, you won't hold my gaze, and your pulse is racing at twice its normal speed." Despite her best efforts to remain coolly professional, Irene is seething. How dare he - how dare he presume to come to her in such a state - how dare he think she wouldn't notice - and how dare he try to deny it now.

 

Sherlock's lips thin into a line and his jaw sets. For several seconds he says nothing, and Irene thinks he will refuse to answer her even though his condition is glaringly obvious to the both of them. She meets his gaze steadily and finally he sighs and waves a causal hand at her, as if trying to impress how tiring and tedious he finds this whole exchange. "Cocaine."

 

His eyes are still challenging her though. He's read the earlier anger in her tone and he's expecting a lecture on his life choices. Well, that's hardly what he's paying her for. And Irene is the last person to complain about recreational misbehavior. If he wants to use on his own time, it's hardly any concern of hers. She does, however, have conditions about what he does on her time. "Didn't anyone ever teach you that it's rude not to share?"

 

Irene smirks and eyes him expectantly. Sherlock blinks at her and then seems to come back to himself, his curiosity blazing through slightly bloodshot eyes. "Do you -?"

 

"No - but the next time you feel the need, I expect the option. Manners." Irene adopts her professional scolding tone, "And it's important for both of our safety that you tell me first. I wouldn't want to put you through anything overly _strenuous_."

 

She's smirking again, her tone seductive. Irene is a dominatrix and, whatever Sherlock might fancy that means, she is an expert at wielding seduction and discipline at the same time. Whether with a whip or her words. He'll be a good boy and he'll do as she's asked or she'll make him regret it the next time.

 

Sherlock is looking her over critically, whether searching for some sort of hidden disgust or simply testing how serious she is, frustratingly, Irene can't determine. Finally, his expression settles somewhere around what might be called humor or might simply be smug. "I can take care of myself." Irene waits, one hand on her hip. Sherlock's gaze drops from hers as he finally moves to don his clothing and shoes before standing abruptly, sliding on his blazer in one smooth movement and draping his coat across his arm. "But as you wish."

 

He turns on his heel and leaves without further comment. She can hear his footsteps bounding down the stairs and the slam of the door behind him.

 

Irene tucks her dressing gown more tightly about herself, securing the sash. She wonders where he's headed in such a state, and then she stops herself forcefully. Irene is not in the habit of wondering about clients when they're not with her. If the information is relevant, she obtains it. Otherwise, it is of no concern to her. She calls Kate to draw her a bath and tries to stop imaging where Sherlock might be or what he might be doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The choice of "Cinnamon" as a safe word is a deliberate shout out to Emmagrant01's absolutely amazing Sherlock/John BDSM fic, "A Cure For Boredom". I read that fic before I'd ever watched Sherlock (I followed her from HP), and I'm sure it had an influence on my desire to explore Irene and Sherlock's potential pre-series relationship, though ACFB and SR are two very different fics and pairings. Even though I've never shipped Sherlock and John, I still love ACFB, and it's a fandom icon, so it only seemed appropriate to seed a few references here.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is midday, Kate is out running errands, and Sherlock Holmes is standing in her _bedroom._

In the morning, Irene indulges in a lie-in followed by a leisurely bath, letting the hot water soothe the bruises and aches that have firmed up overnight. She refuses to linger on how she acquired them, focusing instead on her itinerary for the day. Only once the water has started to cool does Irene rise, drying her skin and dropping her towel to the floor for Kate to tidy up later. It's warm enough that she doesn't need her dressing gown, and Irene wanders back to her room naked, her skin still flushed from the bath and her mind already in her wardrobe.

 

The dark figure standing just inside the door is very much not Kate. Sherlock turns to her as she enters, narrowed eyes scanning her as thoroughly as he's just done her room. "I did knock."

 

It is midday, Kate is out running errands, and Sherlock Holmes is standing in her _bedroom_. Very few people have seen the inside of her bedroom - she doesn't even allow her lovers here. Irene stops in the middle of the room, wet hair dripping down her back, and regards her guest. "It's not Thursday."

 

He prowls forward in one smooth movement, her words the permission he had been waiting for, and backs her into her vanity, hands at her hips. "I needed to see you."

 

It comes out low and raw and a bit breathless, and Irene can't help but think that that wasn't what he'd planned on saying. His pupils are blown and he looks as though he hasn't slept in a week, though his gaze is still sharp as they watch one another. The wool of his coat brushes against her skin. He's removed his scarf already. Pity, that. "Are you still high?"

 

He flinches as though she'd slapped him but holds her gaze. "No. You said not to. It is - hard. I couldn't spend another week waiting to see you. Not after last night."

 

His words tumble out fast, as though he's thinking aloud, and there's such a wealth of information before he cuts his speech off that Irene is caught off guard. Pride that he is so clearly bowing to her rules so quickly. Surprise that he has been thinking about her - about their meetings - often between sessions. Irene flicks those thoughts quickly away for examination later - now is not the time to make him wait. She lifts one hand and trails her finger in a line down his body, starting from the undone top button of his shirt, and enjoying his slight hiss when she traces the obvious bulge in his trousers with her nail. "I can see that it is terribly hard."

 

Sherlock's hands tighten, and then he's lifting her onto her vanity, her makeup sliding off in her wake. He steps between her open legs, his hands running along her body, light over the various bruises and scrapes she knows are prominently visible. He was waiting for permission or perhaps for her to throw him out. Irene's resulting shiver has nothing to do with the cold.

 

Her surprise is fading into a low burn of arousal, magnified as the pads of his fingers brush across the marks he left on her. They've usually healed between sessions, but they are both raw and damaged today. If she had the patience, she'd strip him and reopen the marks littering his body.

 

Irene unfastens his trousers and draws him out, stroking his cock teasingly. She slides one leg over his hip, under his coat. "What are you waiting for? I thought you came here to fuck me." She enunciates _fuck_ carefully - a deliberately crude challenge.

 

He does nothing for one long second, his eyes searching her, gauging whether or not she's serious. Then his hands move to her thighs, dragging her to the edge of the vanity until his cock brushes up against her already slick sex. Irene arches into him, lifting her other leg to wrap both of them around his hips, steering him to her entrance before releasing him.

 

Sherlock pushes into her slowly, surprisingly gentle as his head drops to her neck, pressing chaste kisses over the bite marks that burn there. Irene lets her head fall back against the mirror as she stretches to accommodate him, her hands clutching the edge of the table.

 

Sherlock pauses once he is buried to the hilt, their hips flush and breaths echoing in the silence of her room. She wonders if he's trying to apologize for last night or if he's just clinging to his control. She wants neither his apology nor his control. Irene tightens her legs around his hips, arching her chest up into his and demanding, "More."

 

His teeth scrape against her neck as he pulls out and snaps his hips back into hers, hands tightening over existing bruises. Their balance is precarious as he begins to thrust hard, bottles rattling around them as he presses Irene back. She should be furious, but her pulse is racing and her body is already aching for him. The previous night had been rough and intense, and she wants to see that side of him when his actions are not clouded by drugs. She brings one hand up to his throat, squeezing as she hauls him up to look at her. "More."

 

Sherlock wrenches her arm from his throat with a low growl, pinning both her arms behind her, one hand keeping a bruising grip around her wrists. There's the rattle and tumble of glass and then the sharp shatter of her perfume bottle against the floor, Casmir wafting up in a cloud to consume them. The wools of his coat chafe against her bare arms where his wraps around her, pinning her to him; his other hand tightens at her thigh, snapping their hips together harder and faster. His teeth and lips close back over her neck and chest, particularly sharp over the existing bruises.

 

She'd shove off his coat if her hands were free - he must be boiling under the rough wool - but she rather loves that she can't. The vanity is shaking under them, the chime of glass bottles clanging and wood rocking, and his cock is pounding into her even as they both shake and shudder and whimper. Irene challenges him again, her voice whipping out into the room. "More."

 

Sherlock frees his hand from her thigh long enough to wrap it in her damp hair, dragging her head back until he can fist her hair in the same hand pressing her wrists to the table, forcing her to arch back roughly and bumping her head against the mirror again. His freed hand returns to balance them, his lips closing roughly around first one nipple and then the other, trailing quick bites between her breasts that he soothes with his tongue. Blood and pleasure race through her body, welling up along the path of his mouth, and Irene laughs around a moan, delighted, determined to see how far she can push them.

 

Sherlock's teeth close gently over her jugular, a warning, his grip tightening in her hair. "Shut up," he growls, and then his mouth is finally closing over hers.

 

Their mouths battle, teeth and tongues parrying, with not enough time to catch their breaths between rough bites and slick thrusting tongues to match their hips. His free hand slides to rub at her clit and Irene feels herself shattering with a curious sensation of elation and surrender. Her teeth close tightly around his bottom lip in retaliation, reopening the previous wound there, as Sherlock's hips stutter roughly against hers.

 

Irene runs her tongue soothingly over the wound at his lip as he slumps against her momentarily. His grip slackens and Irene tugs her hair and wrists free, bracing her hands against the worktop to hold up both of them before they destroy her favorite piece of furniture, and enjoying the pins and needles that tingle up her arms.

 

After a moment, Sherlock pulls out and tucks himself away, his back to her. Irene uses the moment to try to catch her breath and calm her racing pulse, and she suspects he's doing the same. When he turns back to her, fully clothed but considerably disheveled, he draws back her vanity chair and extends a surprisingly gentlemanly hand toward her.

 

Irene arches one brow in question as she takes it, allowing him to help her down from her vanity and into the chair. It makes her feel more raw and vulnerable than the sex had, so she makes sure her voice is sharp and her gaze quelling. "I'm not here to be at your every beck and call. Do try to show some restraint."

 

Sherlock gives her a look that clearly says: _aren't you?_ His hand tightens around her wrist dangerously and, for the first time, Irene has the sense that perhaps he is accustomed to hurting people in a far less playful way than she is. "I exercise considerable restraint where you are concerned, Ms. Adler." He releases her as quickly as he'd seized her but does not step away.

 

"Then I won't see you tomorrow, will I?" It's an invitation as much as a challenge and her heart races uncomfortably as she realizes she doesn't know which she'd prefer he take. Irene straightens her spine and takes great joy in being the one to dismiss him.

 

Sherlock's brows draw briefly together before he offers her a wry grin. "Apologies about the mess. Do add it to my bill." He turns and leaves, already buttoning his coat as he shuts the door firmly behind his harsh words.

 

Irene feels the slap that his words were meant to be. It is something of a relief, the harsh reminder that, however unconventional their arrangement, he is still a client and she still has control. Irene rises carefully from her vanity, surveying the shattered bottles and scattered makeup and jewelry littering the floor.

 

Her room smells like Casmir and sex.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bottle of Casmir is delivered the next morning by an impersonal steward from the Chopard Boutique in Mayfair. There is no note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to turn this chapter into two for length, so SR will now be 21 chapters. I hope you enjoy!

A bottle of Casmir is delivered the next morning by an impersonal steward from the Chopard Boutique in Mayfair. There is no note.

 

Sherlock himself does not return to Belgravia for two weeks. It is infuriating. Irene had expected him to resist a day at most until his pride fell before whatever had driven him into her bedroom in broad daylight.

 

After he misses their first appointment, Irene justifies that it is perfectly reasonable to be concerned as to whether or not her client ever intends to return. She tugs her hair roughly down from the elaborate twist she'd styled it into and wonders where Sherlock is if he's not with her.

 

By the time he does appear, Irene fully intends to turn him away. He has kept her waiting around for him and she despises being made to wait - as though she really is at his beck and call.

 

When the door chimes for their appointment the week following the one he'd missed, Irene is cold as glass as she answers, even though she is seething and her heart is racing despite her best efforts.

 

She swings opens the door halfway, blocking his egress, and opens her mouth to tell him exactly what she thinks of his behavior. One look at him stops her. Irene closes her mouth firmly and moves aside to allow him entry, scanning him to determine what in the world has happened to him in the last two weeks. Whatever it was, it was dreadful.

 

Sherlock does not look at her as he turns to ascend to the second floor. Irene follows carefully, her breath catching when he pauses fractionally at her bedroom before continuing on to the playroom.

 

It is only once they are behind a second set of closed doors that Sherlock sinks gracelessly into her armchair. He is missing his coat, his blazer is torn, his shirt misbuttoned, and his trousers and shoes are splattered with mud from god knows where. He's pale and thin, and his hands brush agitatedly through his tangled hair before he raises bloodshot eyes to her, made more prominent by the circles under them.

 

Irene purses her lips and crosses to him, kneeling so that she can start stripping him of his clothes. She'll have to send them out to be cleaned and mended whilst he's here - thankfully, she has an excellent cleaning service on standby.

 

Sherlock lets her work, eyeing her warily, until her hands move to the cuffs of his shirt. He catches her wrists silently, thumbs rubbing contritely over the places where her bruises have faded. Irene meets his suspicious gaze determinedly, keeping her tone crisp and professional and as playful as she can manage with the worry churning in her gut. "A bath first tonight, I think. If you're a good boy, perhaps I'll join you."

 

After a moment, Sherlock nods, turning his head away from her, his jaw tense. He needn't have bothered - Irene already knows what she'll find when she gets his shirt off. She's seen scars of track marks on his arms before; though he's been careful to keep her from a detailed perusal when there have been new ones. Today, his arms are an absolute mess. There's a livid wound further down that looks as though an IV was ripped out within the last few days. Irene has seen worse but not on him, and she feels a surprising pang of empathy. Irene is not in the habit of caring about the pain of others - she much prefers to inflict it.

 

Not today, though. Irene drops his shirt to join his blazer on the floor and moves efficiently to unlace his shoes, refusing to let her gaze linger on his arms.

 

"Mycroft locked me in another rehab."

 

Irene doesn't blink, her hands moving to the fastenings of his trousers. "And how did that go?"

 

Sherlock snorts, disgust in his voice. "Not well." He sighs dramatically and drags his hands through his hair again. "I was perfectly fine. If he'd only let me finish the case!"

 

Irene rises neatly and he follows her, shoving his trousers to the floor and stepping out of them as they head to the bath. She turns the taps and selects some oils carefully before turning back to him. "Are you coming down or going up?"

 

Sherlock flops petulantly down on the floor. "Down. Now. I had to show Mycroft first."

 

Nodding and deftly avoiding that topic, she asks, "What case?" Irene is proud of herself for maintaining the aloofness that has defined her professional life, even if there is a distinct lack of her normal cool unattainability in drawing someone a hot bath.

 

He'd been fine when he'd left her last. Not perfect but also not this. She feels a surprising and upsetting twinge of guilt - that perhaps she'd been too harsh when they'd last been together and she'd sent him away. But no, the man who sent her Chopard perfume as an apology or trophy or reminder was not one that she'd driven back into heavy drug usage. She knows he's been using cocaine for their entire acquaintance, but nothing like this clear spiral.

 

Irene suppresses a hot flash of rage at his brother. Clearly, whatever had happened, Mycroft Holmes had made it exponentially worse. And now she has to pick up the pieces - it would be terrible form to have a client die on her.

 

Sherlock is watching her closely from his sullen position. He offers her a ghost of his sarcastic smile, more self-depreciating than anything. "Hardly worthy of your time - baths and detective stories."

 

She splashes him playfully as she checks the temperature of the bath, smirking. "I like detective stories. And detectives."

 

The bath is full and not too warm, so Irene rises and glances meaningfully between Sherlock and the tub before he can retaliate for her splash. He stands dutifully and clambers into the tub, settling down with a great slop of water over the rim and all over Irene. He eyes her from beneath his messy curls with a more self-assured smirk. "Have I gotten you wet?"

 

"Stay," she orders, glaring as she enters her playroom to strip off her - likely ruined - dress. She gathers his clothes as well, emptying his pockets before she takes them out with her dress, calling for Kate to send them out immediately.

 

Kate takes the clothes with a raised eyebrow but no comment, and Irene is, as ever, thankful for the absolute discretion of her assistant.

 

Irene returns quickly to the playroom and en-suite, where Sherlock has slipped entirely under the water. Irene waits, tapping her foot and counting the seconds, until Sherlock's head breaks the surface. He shakes water out of his unruly curls, getting her wet again, naturally.

 

Sherlock's eyes immediately find hers. "You might as well join me - you're already naked and soaking."

 

Irene rolls her eyes, running her hands along her body to brush off the water and undo her brassiere, stepping out of her knickers and heels as she counters, "Are you going to tell me a detective story?"

 

Sherlock huffs but makes room for her, and Irene climbs neatly into the oversized claw foot tub. She settles in, tilting her head back lazily over the edge and regarding him expectantly.

 

"I considered becoming a detective. Then I read all the utterly boring rules and regulations. So I chose to become a consulting detective. Far more interesting. I invented the job." His voice is low and scratchy, but he sounds more like himself - just a bit cocky and challenging.

 

She offers him an approving smile that is all teeth and prompts, "And what does a consulting detective do - besides misbehave?"

 

He relaxes marginally, letting his eyes close as he sinks further into the tub, spilling more water over the edges, and considers her question. They're facing each other, knees tucked up. Irene tangles her legs with his until they're both stretched out fully. She does it to see how he'll react, but his eyes stay closed and suddenly the position feels far more intimate than she'd expected. It's not overtly sexual, though she considers making it so in order to erase that strange vulnerability crawling over her skin.

 

Sherlock's voice is a low rumble when he continues, clearly considering them settled. "When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me. If the case is interesting enough, I solve it for them. It's always best when the criminal thinks he's clever - oh, it's almost always men, though the women are far more interesting - before I catch him. Only, without the police bumbling around and missing absolutely everything, the criminals are never nearly so clever as I'd hoped."

 

"You want them to be clever?" Irene shares his opinion of the inadequacies of the police force - she has already corrupted a rather impressive number of them with only the most minimal effort, after all. She considers it something of a hobby.

 

"I want to not be so intolerably bored. It would help if any of these so-called criminal masterminds showed even a modicum of actual intellect." He's agitated again, eyes open and flashing as though it's her fault.

 

"Is that what the drugs are for? A cure for boredom?" She arches one eyebrow and keeps her voice casual, but she watches him sag into the tub anyway, jaw tense as he turns away.

 

He answers her even though she can tell he does not want to discuss it, perhaps because she's right. "Mostly. My mind stalls and rots when it is not challenged, but there is so little truly challenging when one is surrounded by idiots all of the time. I have to do something to stave off the boredom or I become - unpredictable. The cocaine helps. It also has the excellent effect of irritating Mycroft. He goes to great lengths to keep my little habit quiet; it embarrasses him."

 

And occasionally tosses Sherlock into a rehab quite against his will, Irene notes. Tangling with Mycroft Holmes appears to be a considerably dangerous proposition, even for his little brother. She feels another surprising flash of anger toward the elder Holmes for his callous treatment of the man in front of her; the Iceman indeed. Irene brushes that thought aside and instead queries pointedly, "Are you bored now?"

 

Sherlock's eyes snap back to her, focused and intense. "No."

 

It is a compliment, undoubtedly, even though he does not elaborate as such. It is pleasing to think that he finds her as much of a challenge as she does him. Not that Irene will let it distract her from her point. "And yet you continue to take chances with your health and, by extension, mine, merely to spite your brother?"

 

His body tenses against hers, eyes narrowing and voice whipping out sharply to match hers. "I do not take chances with my health."

 

Irene raises an eyebrow at his dismissive words. "This from the man who injects poison into his veins on a semi-frequent basis?"

 

His nostrils flare and she can see him struggling somewhere between exhaustion and anger. But he owes her an answer and she intends to hear it. "I have a degree in chemistry and I do not enjoy social interactions. I purify my own cocaine and use it alone. I do not share needles and my health is not at risk. You needn't be concerned."

 

"I'm not concerned," Irene pulls away from him and she knows the second she does that she's told too much in that gesture. Damn him, but she is concerned and she wants to punish him for that. "I'm simply not going to fuck a junkie."

 

He reels back as though she's slapped him, and the intimacy of earlier is effectively crushed. "I'm not a junkie," he hisses, voice low and accusing. "And you've been aware of my habits for some time and still fucked me. Rather enthusiastically, if I recall."

 

Before she can counter, Sherlock moves over her in one swift motion, more water escaping the bath in his wake. He supports himself with one hand clutching the edge of the tub while the other trails suggestively but aggressively across her body.

 

Irene allows that but turns her head sharply away when he moves to kiss her. She should have left him to drown in the bath, if he wished, rather than climbing in after him. What was she thinking? It's intimate and risky and weak, and it's made an obvious liar of her.

 

His free hand seizes her jaw and turns her head back to his, pressing his lips over hers. When she refuses to open her mouth, Sherlock's fingers dig into her jaw until she relents. He tastes like an ashtray, which she should be utterly appalled by. Her pulse races and she knows he can feel it with his fingers pressed dangerously against her neck.

 

Sherlock releases her when he's proved his point, and Irene fights to stop her body from arching into his hand as it trails down her sternum and stomach, his fingers wading through the water to stroke her skin. Irene clenches her thighs together firmly but arches into his mouth when it latches onto her breast, his tongue surprisingly soft and contrite as it curls around her nipple.

 

His hand travels lower, fingers tapping contemplatively and maddeningly across her clit. His knee pries apart her thighs as her fingers wrap around his forearms, digging in. He pauses, glancing between his arms and her eyes as he shakes his soaked curls out of his face. "Do you want me to stop?"

 

"Yes," she lies, meeting his eyes steadily. They both know that she would stop him if she wanted to. It would be easy, even - he's hardly in top form at the moment.

 

Sherlock chuckles lowly; a dangerous, calculated sound that tells her he can see right through her. "Afraid to let the junkie touch you?" His fingers press lower, parting her folds to the slick rush of water surrounding them.

 

He would stop if she used her safe word. Of course, that would mean admitting that she cannot handle him, which is absurd. When she doesn't stop him, he presses two fingers inside her, his thumb circling over her clit.

 

Irene reaches one hand between them, grasping his half-hard cock viciously and stroking him to full arousal with a punishing grip. "You're a dangerous man to have in my bed, Mr. Holmes."

 

His knee and hand press harder against her, the tip of his cock brushing against her stomach as she works him. "We're not in your bed. And you like to misbehave."

 

They're both breathing hard through their noses already, a mix of anger and arousal that races between them like an electric current. They've both shown weakness and they're both determined to scrub it out, even though she knows this is a terrible idea. He's clearly in no shape for strenuous activities, and she really shouldn't trust him at his word. The bathwater is already cooling against Irene's overheated skin, leaving her shivering in delight at the contrasting sensations as she arches her hips hard against Sherlock's hand. "Always."

 

They're rough and demanding with one another, teeth biting and fingers stroking in a quick, hard rhythm that leaves them both gasping. Irene comes fast and hard, biting her lip defiantly against the moan that wants to escape. Sherlock follows right behind her, his breath catching as he pulses in her hand.

 

They're left shivering in the cold, dirty bathwater. Sherlock's grip on the edge of the tub is white-knuckled as he struggles to hold himself up. Irene uncurls her fingers from his bicep and shoves him gently back before he collapses entirely, reaching for the plug to the drain. "You've gotten me filthy," she chides, rising on shaky legs to draw the curtain and turn on the shower instead.

 

Sherlock snorts. "Isn't that the point?" And joins her under the spray after a moment, pressed against her back.

 

Irene turns to wrap her arms around his waist and he lets her support him without comment. They stay tucked close together as they wash, hands sliding across bodies with a lazy sensuality that keeps their endorphins pleasantly high. The natural buzz is softening Sherlock's come-down; he seems less edgy under her ministrations.

 

It's oddly comfortable to be washing one another, even though Irene knows that both of them generally prefer to be alone. It's that same intimacy that drove them to sharp words earlier but muted now in its stifling intensity.

 

Eventually they manage to actually get clean, even if their hands get distracted along the way. Irene tugs Sherlock out of the tub after her, handing him a towel and digging under the sink until she finds her first aid kit. She'll have to call out to have the bathroom tidied up, undoubtedly.

 

By the time she's gathered her supplies, Sherlock has finished toweling his hair, leaving it messier than before. He drops the towel carelessly to the soaked floor and yanks his arm away from her at the sight of the gauze in her hands. "I'm fine."

 

"I can't have you bleeding on my sheets - they're silk." She extends her hand again and it is not a question.

 

Sherlock huffs but sits obediently on the closed toilet. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

 

Irene offers a low laugh at that. "I'm a dominatrix. Why don't you tell me, Mr. Holmes?"

 

He scowls but lets her bandage his arms. She works quickly and efficiently, taking special care to be sure that the IV wound is clean and not infected. It's not quite as bad as she'd first suspected - at least it's not bleeding.

 

She doesn't bother to return the kit to its place when she's finished, merely combing out her wet hair as she watches Sherlock. He still looks exhausted but she has a feeling that exhaustion has never stopped Sherlock before. "I've sent your clothes out to be cleaned."

 

"Oh?" he inquires neutrally and Irene can tell he knows what she means by the way his eyes shift from her to the hidden doorway across the room.

 

Irene crosses to the bedside table to retrieve her key before unlocking her bedroom door. Kate is likely still keeping an eye on the hallway, waiting for a chance to catch Irene, and she doesn't want to see the questions in her assistant's eyes. Her heart races treacherously as she crosses the threshold, Sherlock a step behind her.

 

"I thought I was too dangerous to be allowed in your bed," it's not really a question, somewhere between amusement and sharp accusation.

 

She can't resist turning around to watch him take in the details of her room with a sweeping gaze that seems to penetrate all her careful veneers. "Perhaps I like to live dangerously."

 

Sherlock smirks at her as he continues the thorough perusal of her bedroom that he had neither the time nor the inclination for the first time they were here together. "Obviously."

 

Irene tears her gaze from his, moving briskly to pull back the covers and slip into her bed. Her heart is still racing and even she can't pretend that there is anything professional in her behavior. Whatever is between them, it's never really been that. "Well, are you coming?"

 

After a long moment, Sherlock nods, long strides taking him to her bed, even if his motions are somewhat stiff and perfunctory as he slides under the sheets on the far side. "I don't sleep much," he warns.

 

"I do," Irene challenges, turning to face him with her head propped up on her hand. "And I'll be quite cross if you wake me."

 

"Oh what will you do, punish me?" Sherlock scoffs, but Irene can tell he's teasing by the way relaxes into the bedding at her words, his eyes closing.

 

"You'd enjoy that too much."

 

For all his protests, she thinks he's already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shout-out to "A Cure For Boredom" here, in a manner which Sherlock would probably consider obvious, but which I couldn't resist.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all her protests, Irene is surprised she sleeps at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly behind on chapter replies. Know that I live for comments and I'll reply to all of them when I have a chance. In the meantime, I'll just smile happily at them.
> 
> Here's the second part of what was originally one chapter.

For all her protests, Irene is surprised she sleeps at all. She is ill-used to sharing a bed with anyone - let alone her bed and let alone the state Sherlock was in the previous day. She should be appalled that she's allowed him such flagrant breaches of protocol - more so that she's encouraged him. Instead, Irene realizes with mounting internal horror that they have both shifted toward the middle of the bed in their sleep - probably their natural dispositions vying to control the entire sleeping area - and somehow _compromised_ into what can only be considered spooning. Her head is resting on Sherlock's arm while his body curls around her, his head tucked against her neck and his other arm loosely draped over her side.

 

He's awake before her, of course. When she stiffens involuntarily, his lips press just below her ear. "Good. You're awake. My arm is falling asleep."

 

His voice is a low rumble in the morning, rough with disuse despite the matter-of-fact cadence. Irene lifts her weight slightly off his arm and inquires, "And yet you didn't wake me? My, you do take direction well."

 

"On the contrary," he rumbles, his lips traveling down her neck precisely. "I was timing the paresthesia relative to blood flow for future reference. I would have woken you in approximately five minutes, once numbness set in and the experimental data was compromised."

 

It's frustrating having him behind her, where she cannot as easily tell what he is thinking. Not that it would help - Irene is not even certain what she is thinking at the moment. Certainly, she should throw him out of her bed and her house.

 

His lips close over her pulse point and Irene's body betrays her, arching back into his arms. "Blood certainly seems to be flowing to some parts," she says instead, arching back against him more deliberately.

 

Instead of responding - she imagines it is a bit of an obvious innuendo, but she's not exactly practiced in waking up next to someone - Sherlock's arms tug her closer, his hands sliding across her front as his teeth nip softly at her neck. The patches of gauze she wound around his arms last night are rough against her skin. "I want to see you more than once a week. Say yes."

 

It's a demand and a question and neither, and Irene finds herself too surprised to answer, even though she shouldn't be. He'd said as much the last time she'd seen him, though she'd never imagined he'd admit to it in a less charged moment.

 

One of his hands toys with her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers until they are hard and sensitive, while the other hand splays low across her stomach until his fingers can nudge her clit through her curls. Irene bites her lip and arches into his hands, his cock hard against her arse. "Who says I want to see you? I could throw you out right now."

 

"You haven't yet," he replies, low and confident, and she knows that neither of them are fooled no matter how stern she manages to hold her voice.

 

His fingers are working her up gently, circling her clit just the way they both know she likes it, if a bit slower than usual. Still, Irene can feel the last vestiges of sleep falling away as heat starts to lick and curl through her body, concentrated where his hands and lips tease her. Irene rocks against him, enjoying being pressed so tight to his body that she can feel his muscles strain against the slightly awkward position. It is vaguely thrilling being able to feel Sherlock so fully without being able to see his responses. She can feel him holding back even as he works her steadily closer to her orgasm. Irene drags one arm back to dig her nails into his arse in encouragement, her lip still between her teeth.

 

Sherlock stifles a grunt against her neck, his knee pressing gently between hers until she shifts and feels his cock slide between her legs. Irene's breath catches, but he does not make any move further, their bodies rocking slightly together as his fingers continue to drive her higher. He's learnt her erogenous spots far too quickly, and his mouth nips at the especially sensitive spot on her neck, sending pleasure spiking through her.

 

Still, he doesn't move to take things further, and Irene realizes that perhaps he's not sure if she wants to after the harsh words of yesterday. Which is ridiculous, considering that they're currently in her _bed_ and she very much has not asked him to leave. It is reckless to take him at his word, and yet she doesn't feel vulnerable with his hands and body wrapped around her.

 

Irene shifts, arching her hips back until the head of his cock presses inside her, and Sherlock stills against her, his heartbeat as rapid as her own and his breath short against her ear. "Are you certain?"

 

She can hear his uncertainty in the way the words tumble out as a ragged question. Impatient, Irene presses him closer with her grip on his arse, her body flushed with heat as she arches against him. " _Yes_."

 

Sherlock's whole body tenses at her response, and then he thrusts forward slowly until he is fully sheathed in her; his hands resuming their tasks. His movements are slow and gentle in a sharp contrast to their last few couplings. Despite the languid position and pace, Irene finds herself already achingly close in a way that leaves her breath caught in her throat.

 

Judging by the trembling of Sherlock behind her, he is close himself. His one hand turns from her breasts to move her closer, arm wrapped firmly across her body while the fingers of his other press more firmly against her clit in time with the motions of his hips. He sucks hard at that spot on her neck and Irene trembles and comes apart, her orgasm sweeping through her in a low current of ecstasy.

 

Sherlock manages three more shaky thrusts before he is following behind her, his teeth closing sharply on her neck as he comes.

 

They are hot and sticky and sweaty, pressed so close together under her likely ruined silk sheets that Irene cannot tell whose heartbeat is echoing through her chest. They've made liars out of each other to prove that they trust the other.

 

It all feels terribly intimate in a way that Irene usually dissociates from sex. Thus, it is something of a relief when Sherlock's arms loosen and he carefully pulls away from her, rolling onto his back, and then quickly climbing out of her bed.

 

Irene shoves the sheets away as she stretches and sits up, turning to watch as he moves about the room, making his way to the en-suite. He looks less exhausted, his movements surer than the previous night. The imprints of her nails are quite fetching on his bum. Irene smirks, musing aloud to put them back on familiar ground. "Perhaps I should keep you waiting in my bed more often."

 

"I'd be far too much trouble," he responds, voice muffled through the wall.

 

Irene snorts as she reaches for a cloth to quickly clean up with before she dons her dressing gown. "You're already too much trouble. You do have your uses, though."

 

Darting into the hallway, Irene finds Sherlock's clothes stacked neatly outside the playroom door. She tosses them at his chest as he exits the en-suite and she slips around him to take her turn washing up properly.

 

He's fully dressed and rifling through her vanity when she emerges, his hand lingering over the bottle of Casmir.

 

Irene crosses to him and extends her wrist. She half expects him to simply hand over the bottle. Instead, his long fingers wrap around her wrist before bending to press a kiss to her upturned palm. While Irene is still trying to decipher if such an exaggeratedly intimate gesture is meant to be intimate or sarcastic, Sherlock has already straightened, retrieved her perfume bottle, spritzed her wrist, and released her.

 

When he looks up, there's a crooked half grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Merely trying to be useful."

 

His familiar sarcasm is oddly comforting. Irene arches one eyebrow and shrugs delicately. "Careful. I might decide to take you on as my lady's maid."

 

"You wouldn't do that," he responds immediately, all cocky confidence again.

 

"Wouldn't I?" Irene has a delightful vision of him waiting at her beck and call, perhaps in stockings.

 

Sherlock crosses to the door. "Nah. I'm far too unpredictable." The statement is purposefully light but there is a shadow in his eyes that might be regret. He certainly has been unpredictable their last few encounters. "Besides - isn't that what you have Kate for?"

 

Settling at her vanity, Irene acknowledges that with a half-smile of her own. She's not surprised he knows of Kate, though she's certain he's not met her. "Perhaps." Dear Kate, undoubtedly lurking somewhere discrete nearby, would be appalled if she found an overnight guest leaving Irene's bedroom. "And Mr. Holmes?" He pauses at the open door. "I'll expect you tonight."

 

He doesn't reply, but then he doesn't need to.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It should concern her that the thin lines they'd set between personal and professional have blurred beyond recognition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a week late. It's actually one of the last chapters I wrote, and editing it took longer than anticipated. I'll try to post the next chapter early to make up for the delay.

He is on her doorstep at the stroke of nine, and Irene opens the door with a low, tingly feeling of anticipation churning in her gut that she refuses to pay any mind to.

 

There's no pause as they ascend the stairs and turn into her bedroom - not even the thinnest veneer of pretense that they're meant to be in her playroom. It should concern her that the thin lines they'd set between personal and professional have blurred beyond recognition.

 

She'd have to be a better liar than she is - and she's a brilliant liar - if she didn't admit that the line has been blurred since the moment he walked into her office and called her by her name.

 

There's never been anything entirely professional between them.

 

What is between them, Irene pointedly does not dissect as she lets her dressing gown drop to the floor, revealing her lingerie for the evening to Sherlock's blatantly appreciative gaze. She's worn a corset - satin set over steel boning - with matching satin suspenders supporting silk stockings. Her heels, as always, are tall and sharp, the stiletto a dangerous reminder even without her whips in hand.

 

Sherlock strips his clothing neatly - no longer worried about what she might see on his arms - and glances at the open toy chest with an arched brow, clearly wondering what she's chosen tonight. They're back on familiar footing in this routine, at least.

 

He is already erect, which - while flattering - is not conducive to Irene's current plans. "Something to take the edge off, I think. Sit."

 

He does, immediately and without question.

 

Irene stands near the edge of the bed, just out of reach, legs splayed as her hands make their way languidly across her satin-clad body. She purposefully neglected to wear knickers. Her fingertips trail over her neatly trimmed curls, just brushing her clit. "Touch yourself," Irene instructs, tossing him lube. "Slowly."

 

Eyebrows knit together in confusion or concentration, Sherlock does as he's bid, taking his cock in hand and stroking it indolently.

 

"Good," Irene keeps her voice balanced precisely on the line between praise and nonchalance - strictly professional. "Twist your wrist slightly as you - yes, just like that."

 

She watches him modify his strokes, his jaw clenching minutely at the sensation or in concentration; frustratingly, she can't be sure which. She begins to touch herself equally slowly, parting her folds with her fingers, teasing as Sherlock's eyes follow her movements.

 

She'd promised him a show once and she'd promised herself a chance at directing his movements the way he first directed hers. "Slide your thumb over the head of your cock on the upstroke."

 

Irene's own thumb finds her clit, circling it slowly, her skin warm and her nerves jumping with each pass. "Better or worse?"

 

Sherlock's mouth twists slightly up. "Different."

 

She shouldn't approve of the way he challenges her constantly; it shouldn't send a thrill tingling low across her sex and make her bite her lip. Irene brings her hands to her breasts, teasing herself with unhurried strokes. She shouldn't reward him for a contrary answer but she promised herself to see his response to _visual stimulation_ months ago and she's eager to test her theory.

 

"Better or worse?"

 

His eyebrows knit together, enough bite in his tone to suggest that he's not quite as above the baser instincts of his body as he'd clearly like to believe. "The visual stimulation or the direction? There are too many variables to tease apart the relative effects."

 

Irene increases the movements of her fingers minutely, arching a pointed eyebrow. "You're missing the point entirely."

 

"Am I?" His movements speed up to match hers - a quick study, as always.

 

"The point of teasing is to elicit an effect." Irene pinches one nipple sharply enough through her corset to elicit a soft, keening sigh to illustrate her point. After all, she can direct her own body just as well as she controls others'.

 

Sherlock's eyes darken. "In that case: better."

 

"Very good. Now follow along, and do try to keep up."

 

It's a challenge and Sherlock's eyes narrow in recognition of it.

 

Irene sinks two fingers inside herself and curls them up, starting a slow but firm rhythm that leaves her biting her lip and arching into her own touch. Her eyes remain on Sherlock as he curls his hand into a fist around his cock and matches his strokes to hers. There's something doubly erotic about masturbating together, about feeling her own fingers at her sex and imagining his, while watching his hand stroke his cock and imagining the feel of it in hers.

 

Sherlock's breathing is carefully modulated now, his nostrils flaring as he struggles not to give himself away by speeding up without her, his eyes watching her intensely.

 

The rush of control is heady and demanding; she could leave them both teetering on the edge of orgasm or race him to completion. As delicious as the first is, she already has plans for later; this is just the prelude.

 

"Faster. Alternate pressure and swivel."

 

She follows her own instructions right along with Sherlock, palm of her hand rubbing hard against her clit as she thrusts her fingers, varying the pressure and curve of her fingertips with each stroke. Her other hand is still at her breasts, more for the visual than direct stimulation.

 

Sherlock groans, his breathing heavier, and Irene notes the precise combination that elicited such a response. She doesn't need to ask if it's _better_.

 

"Do that again," she directs, feeling her own breathing grow ragged in time with his. "Keep going."

 

Sherlock's mouth parts on a sharp inhale, his eyes focused on her hand at her sex and his free hand fisted in the bedding.

 

They're even breathing in time with each other; she can feel her own breath pass her lips as she watches Sherlock exhale.

 

It's that thought that pushes her over the edge, picking up speed that Sherlock matches and falling apart with a moan that she hears Sherlock echo as he spills over his hand and Irene focuses her energy on remaining standing.

 

She tosses him a cloth to clean himself up with, reaching surreptitiously into the toy chest as she does so. She doesn't bother to clean the wetness from between her legs - they're far from done for the night.

 

Irene prowls up the bed until she's hovering on her knees next to him, taking the opportunity to survey how he's recovering from his recent ordeal. His color is back to normal and there are no fresh marks on his arms, the gauze apparently abandoned, though he's still too thin and the dark circles under his eyes linger.

 

"Have you eaten?"

 

He arches one eyebrow at her. "Do you care?"

 

She shouldn't. She's the last person in the world to care about the comfort of anyone other than herself, and he's the last person she should care about. "Not unless you pass out on me."

 

It's obvious to both of them that she's lying. Perhaps that's why Sherlock answers, low and determined. "I won't."

 

She catches his lips in a brief kiss that is more teeth than tongue, and then shoves at his shoulders, hard. Sherlock slides willingly down the bed until she can straddle his face, savoring his lust-blown expression as she wraps her fingers around the headboard and lowers herself, rolling her hips, until his hands reach up to catch her thighs and his mouth opens against her, tongue lapping at her slick sex.

 

He starts with a few soft, teasing laps that leave her wanting to growl or smack him, and then Sherlock's lips close over her sensitive clit, sucking hard, and Irene bites out a strangled moan, her legs trembling. He chuckles, the dark sound rumbling straight through her sex, and Irene considers hitting him again for entirely different reasons.

 

But he releases her before the sharp pleasure settles into pain, pointing his tongue and pressing it inside her to thrust and lick at her slippery, fluttering inner walls.

 

There's no point in directing him here. Sherlock has learned to play her body with infuriating expertise, his nose nudging her clit while his tongue laps at all her most sensitive spots.

 

Irene grinds down against him until he must be nearly suffocating, reveling wantonly in his mouth at her sex as her breathing grows shallow, constricted by her corset and the exertion.

 

His teeth scrape across her skin with just an edge of pleasure-pain, hands tightening at her thighs until he lifts her enough to breathe, tongue circling her clit. Irene risks a glance down, not contrite in the slightest, and the smoldering intensity in Sherlock's expression makes her dig her nails into her headboard and struggle anew to catch her breath.

 

He keeps his gaze on hers as his tongue flicks hard over her clit before he draws the engorged nub into his mouth with just a hint of teeth, and Irene comes hard, her grip white knuckled on the headboard and her head thrown back as she moans.

 

Sherlock steadies her with his hands around her waist as Irene rolls her hips against him, riding out her orgasm, her legs shaking as she gasps for breath, and her pulse pounding in her ears.

 

It takes a moment to steady her breathing to account for the corset but Irene is well practiced. She rises up on her knees before she can smother Sherlock and balances carefully until she's certain her legs won't give out.

 

Sherlock is licking his lips, smug, his large hands still easily spanning her waist, fingers playing with the lacing of her corset with what is obvious interest.

 

But he waits for her instructions.

 

She crawls down the bed until she's between his legs, bending to press a teasing kiss to his stomach and using the distraction to draw the toy out of her corset and reach for his hardening cock.

 

With a practiced motion, she stretches the plastic, sliding it over his cock and balls and letting it tighten with a slow, controlled pressure. Sherlock lets out a sharp breath at the unexpected sensation, and Irene straightens to regard her handiwork, taking in the neat ring of silicone wrapped around the base of Sherlock's cock.

 

If he were anyone else, he'd probably be alarmed. Sherlock merely looks intrigued. "Hardly the restraint I was expecting."

 

It's meant as a casual observation, but perhaps it gives away too much after their last few encounters that he thinks she would feel a need to restrain him.

 

"Why go to all that trouble, when I have you right where I want you?" She slides her hand over his bound cock to emphasize her point, listening to his sharp hiss of breath at the sensation as he hardens.

 

It only takes a few more firm strokes to bring him to full hardness, his hands already fisting the sheets and his eyes heavy-lidded as he watches her.

 

Rising up on her knees again, Irene straddles him quickly, sinking all the way down in one swift motion that leaves them both gasping.

 

Her body is still sensitive from her recent orgasms, but Irene rolls her hips in a slow, smooth rhythm, bending both their bodies to her whims with careless abandon. Once she thinks she can stand it, Irene slides her hand between them to turn the ring vibrator on low, gasping along with Sherlock at the sensation.

 

She shifts forward to brace herself against him, raking her nails across Sherlock's chest and relishing his startled grunt of pain at the contrasting sensations as she continues to roll and grind her hips against his, her clit caught against the powerful little vibrator.

 

The change of angle is enough to get her off again quickly, her rhythm never faltering as she moans through her orgasm and immediately works towards her next, using his body shamelessly for her pleasure.

 

Not that Sherlock seems to mind, judging by the way his hands slide across her cinched waist, steadying her and urging her on, his hips rocking up to meet her motions and his eyes blown dark with pleasure. The denial must be bordering on excruciating, her body clenching around him and the cock ring ensuring that he can't come.

 

Irene shudders a little, brushing her fingertips over his hard nipples and watching as Sherlock sucks in a hard breath at the contact.

 

The vibration is almost too much but Irene grinds down against the little toy anyway, seeking her own fine edge of pleasure-pain and seeing just how far she can push her body. It's harder to breathe with the exertion and the corset, but the restriction only adds its own brand of pleasure.

 

Sherlock's hands slide down to her arse, squeezing urgently, and Irene lets him urge her on to a faster pace, leaving them both gasping and sweaty, the buzz of the vibrator and the sound of their flesh slapping and sliding together echoing in the bedroom with their moans.

 

It's the intensity with which he's watching her, despite the tension corded in his muscles, that gets Irene off this time, her body zipping and singing with control.

 

Her legs tremble and her lungs burn but she keeps her pace, catching Sherlock's hands in hers for balance as she shifts upright again, circling her hips over his and clenching her sex hard around his throbbing cock.

 

Sherlock growls, low in his throat, and Irene gives him a sharp grin, delighted at his careful restraint crumbling under her hands.

 

In retaliation, he plants his feet against the bed and rocks his hips up hard in counterpoint to hers, and Irene feels her entire insides quivering and shattering, her toes curling as satisfaction radiates out across her skin. A moan struggles across her lips, cracking in the middle.

 

Her thighs are shaking and her rhythm falters as she struggles not to let the unremitting waves of pleasure overwhelm her, her blood racing and her breath reduced to shallow gasps.

 

Sherlock squeezes her fingers and pries his hands free of her punishing grip, catching her about her waist and lifting her before she can collapse forward.

 

Her back hits the bed and he rises immediately over her, thrusting back inside her with a strangled groan and no silicone between them.

 

Her body clenches down around him naturally and Sherlock shudders at the feeling, so Irene does it again on purpose, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist, clinging to him as he drives into her with quick, hard thrusts.

 

She's really not even come down from her last orgasm as she spirals into the next, her body tensing and clutching and squeezing him as she struggles to catch her breath against the relentless tide of ecstasy.

 

Sherlock doesn't last long at all, after her lengthy denial, his body shaking and heavy in her arms as he comes with a guttural sound ripped from his throat, the two of them falling undone together.

 

They're both absolutely wrecked - she's pushed them both to the limit - and Irene struggles to find her breath again as Sherlock's weight bears down on her, their bodies still shivering through the aftershocks.

 

He recovers more rapidly than she'd anticipated - at least enough to roll them so that she's draped across his chest rather than pinned beneath him.

 

"Can you breathe?"

 

His hands are already undoing the lacings to her corset with surprisingly quick and efficient gestures that imply more than a passing familiarity with the garment.

 

Irene arches a brow, though her voice is more breathless than she'd like, sweaty strands of her carefully coiffed hair escaping and tickling her cheeks. "Do you care?"

 

Sherlock gives her an inscrutable look and matches her earlier words quite deliberately. "Not unless you pass out on me."

 

He lifts her just long enough to yank the corset over her head and toss it aside with a level of impatience that implies both concern and a surreptitious calculation of her restricted lung capacity. Irene takes a measured gulp of air, her lungs fully expanding at last, and expels it in a laugh. "I won't."

 

She lets herself rest back against Sherlock's chest, her fingertips reaching out to trace the healing tracks on his arms. Sherlock's hands smooth absently across her back, soothing the marks left by the steel boning of her corset.

 

After that, he appears every night.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's late.

He's late. By the time the doorbell rings it's gone two in the morning. Irene very nearly doesn't answer. But she knows him well enough to realize he'd either find his way inside anyway or make far too much of a scene at being denied. Best to keep control of the situation.

 

"You're late," she accuses as she opens the door, hand on her hip and glaring. Her hair is undone and her dressing gown is barely done up.

 

She is not expecting Sherlock's quick, hard kiss as he picks her up and spins her around. He's grinning in a way that makes her blood race, setting her down just as abruptly as he'd lifted her. "Case!" is all he says before he moves ahead of her, taking the stairs two at a time to her room.

 

Irene forces herself not to hurry as she locks the door and makes her way upstairs. She is dreadfully curious over what case has kept him out so late, when he's made a point of being in her foyer every evening right at the stroke of nine.

 

He spins her back into the wall the second she enters. He's tucked his scarf into a pocket but is otherwise still fully clothed - he's not even bothered to shed his coat - too impatient tonight. His hand is already snaking under her dressing gown to tease her, the rough wool of his cuff scratching deliciously against her thigh. He brushes her loose hair back with his free hand, his lips descending to her neck.

 

"What case?" Irene manages between stilted gasps as his fingers dance impatiently across her clit.

 

He answers her without slowing his ministrations, his words muffled against her collarbone and sternum. "The serial tube murders that have been in the paper? Victims all stabbed during the evening commute - most not discovered until the end of the line. Dozens of witnesses without enough sense to observe the person bleeding out next to them. Too many people and poor angles making the CCTVs worse than useless. Six murders and next to no valid data. It was seemingly random and almost perfect until tonight." His recitation is rapid-fire in his excitement, his fingers circling her clit faster as he goes on. "I cracked it."

 

Irene lets out a sharp gasp as his fingers work her from a sleepy languor to the edge of pleasure, pinned against her bedroom door.

 

He presses closer and she can feel him, hard and straining against his trousers. He rocks subtly into her as his fingers slide lower, pausing just short of entering her. "Is this all right?"

 

It's impossible to discern whether he means his rather graphic descriptions of the case or his presumption in touching her so intimately. He is keyed up and uninhibited in a way that she has only previously seen when he was high. It's fascinating to watch how different (and intense) his focus and drive and desire is without the drugs artificially manipulating him.

 

The last thing Irene wants is for him to stop. She nods, arching into him. "How did you solve it?"

 

His answering grin is triumphant and brutally cold; it sends sparks of recognition and arousal sliding across Irene's skin as his fingers slide into her. She knows she has a very similar smile, saved for her professional life. All teeth. "I figured out the pattern to the train and timing - each murder was on the next train that had passed through Oxford Circus after the previous - and I rode the line."

 

Irene's nails dig into the back of Sherlock's coat as he curls his fingers up, twisting them just the way she likes. "Did you have to wait for another body?"

 

She's going to come like this, from his rough voice whispering detective stories against her skin while his fingers are buried inside her.

 

"No," he's nearly as breathless as she is already, his teeth scraping across her neck and his hand urgent between her legs. "I spotted him straight off. Then it was just a matter of making him choose me as his victim and waiting for him to make a move."

 

A crowded rush hour commuter train and Sherlock Holmes recognized a murderer and set himself up as bait. "So you spent your night with a murderer. Should I be jealous?" She doesn't know whether to be cross or to laugh and it doesn't matter anyway when his thumb presses hard against her clit and all she's left with is a moan.

 

Sherlock's other hand shifts and she can hear his zip sliding undone. "Oh, he was easy." He doesn't pause to ask her permission again, though he does lift his head up long enough to meet her eyes. Her answer is obvious by the way she hitches her leg over his hip, running her bare skin over the soft fabric of his trousers and the lining of his coat. "One glance at him and it was obvious. Abused as a child. Bullied. Recently lost his job. Making use of skills from too many hunting trips to the country. But you," he presses inside her with a practiced shift of his hips, filling her in a single thrust that leaves them both gasping. "You're the real mystery."

 

Irene's orgasm takes her by surprise, leaving her crying out and arching against his harsh thrusts as he slides his arm under her thigh and drives himself deeper. Irene quite likes being the one mystery that even the world's only consulting detective cannot solve. When she can breathe again, Irene manages, "All this time and not even a theory?"

 

She can feel his smirk against her skin. "Several."

 

"Tell me one," Irene doesn't really think he'll capitulate that easily but her sense of curiosity can't resist. Is she really as much of a mystery to him as he is to her? What wild theories has he concocted? Or is he close to the truth, as no one has managed in decades?

 

Sherlock shifts the angle of his hips until she's left breathless again. "No."

 

The burn of denial is almost as powerful as the rush of authority earlier. She's going to come again, but he's still too wound up, desperate for her. His fingers dig into her thigh and his coat scrapes against her exposed skin, each stroke pressing her harder against the door. They both struggle to control their breathing for a few moments, his mouth warm against her overheated skin. Sherlock needs something more, though - tonight is as much about their minds as their bodies. But then it always is. "The case, then."

 

The words spill out against her skin, rough details of the case as he fucks her. Irene goads him on, demanding that he prove all his deductions. Not normal bedroom conversation, certainly, but then Irene's bedroom has never been considered normal. Listening to Sherlock solve his case, watching the way his mind works, sends an illicit thrill through Irene. It leaves her body thrumming and sparking and shattering under his voice, even as her mind races to solve the mystery first.

 

Their movements become increasingly erratic, Sherlock's voice rough and stilted by gasping breaths. Once she's caught hers, Irene drags her hand to his hair and tugs his head back, meeting his eyes and grinning viciously. "That's how you solved it - the last two trains only intersect at one station."

 

His eyes widen in appreciation, lust clouding his expression. Irene shifts forward to catch his lips with hers in a biting, demanding kiss. Sherlock hitches her higher, spilling inside her with one last, hard thrust.

 

Slowly, they disentangle themselves, pulses still racing. Irene runs her hands from Sherlock's hair to his coat, pushing it firmly off his shoulders as she withdraws from his lips, resting her head back against the door. Sherlock slides his arm out from under her leg to shrug his coat to the floor. He slips out of her and tucks himself away while Irene regains her footing and straightens her dressing gown, hanging caught about her arms.

 

Once she is certain that her legs are steady, Irene pushes off the door and crosses to the en-suite. She leaves the door pointedly open as she turns on the taps. "How did you catch him, in the end?"

 

"Hmm? Oh, that. He was murdering people who he fancied reminded him of himself, so I pretended to be one of those sniveling office workers who takes the brunt of the work and none of the recognition. When he tried to stab me, even the marginally undercover policeman on the train was obliged to notice and arrest him." His hands at her shoulders are both a surprise and not - she'd not heard him follow her but she'd known he would.

 

Irene lets him remove her dressing gown, his hands trailing over her back and arms as he follows the silk, while she tests the water and selects her favorite oils. He is always so tenderly apologetic after he loses control with her, as though Irene ever wants either his apology or his control. "And what would you have done if the policeman had remained oblivious?" She'll make him leave after they've tidied up and she's made him work out the kinks that the door left in her back.

 

His lips press against her shoulder blade, a low, dangerous chuckle escaping him. "He'd already made me late. I had no intention of compounding that error with a stay in hospital."

 

"See that you don't." She tells herself that her relief is purely practical and not at all because Sherlock takes unnecessary, dangerous risks. Not that she cares.

 

Irene steps into the bath. She doesn't have to turn to know Sherlock will be right behind her.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She answers the door in a ball gown once, just to see his reaction.

She answers the door in a ball gown once, just to see his reaction.

  
Sherlock halts on the threshold, eyes sweeping across her. "Are we going out?"

 

"Would you like to?"

 

"I'm underdressed."

 

"Not yet."

 

Irene steps aside at the same moment Sherlock steps forward, almost before she's spoken. It's impossible to determine which of them moved first.

 

He waits in her foyer, looking pointedly bored but clearly waiting on her to decide the course of their evening: whether they end the night dressed up or undressed.

 

The fleeting temptation of the former is quickly overruled by logic, and Irene turns toward her staircase, lifting the hem of her gown to ascend. Sherlock's footsteps trail after hers lazily, whereas he normally ascends quickly, long legs easily taking the stairs two at a time. She wonders if he would have offered her his arm if she'd asked, or whether he'd already considered and thought better of it.

 

Irene crosses to the middle of her bedroom, watching Sherlock expectantly.

 

As is customary, he sheds his coat neatly, hanging it up. Instead of swiftly unbuttoning his blazer, he smoothes it, straightens perceptibly, and offers her his hand. "Dance?"

 

Irene has to fight against a surprised, pleased smile. No matter how much time she spends with Sherlock Holmes, he never ceases to fascinate and surprise her. "Shall I turn on music?" But she's already taking his hand, his other sliding warm across her waist.

 

"Why?" His fingers tap restlessly against the fabric of her bodice as he pulls her close. A waltz, then.

 

It takes her a moment to understand - distracted by the new knowledge that Sherlock Holmes has perfect dancing form. She wonders where he learnt and whether or not she can contrive to find out. Just a moment though, and then she does: notes ordering themselves in her mind and the firm press of his fingers against her waist suddenly flaring to life in vivid harmony.

  
A Viennese waltz, then.

 

This time there is no swallowing her genuine smile. Sherlock responds in kind, pleased that she's figured it out, and sweeps her immediately into the beginning of the waltz.

 

He's a good dancer. Perhaps better than good, since Irene is usually accustomed to leading and he maneuvers her around the room with ease before she can think better of it. Irene sways with him, his fingertips carefully mapping out the notes to music that she can hear as clearly as a full orchestra. It's a bit illicit, whirling around her silent bedroom to music only they both understand.

 

They come to the crescendo and Irene tilts her head up to watch Sherlock, fascinated by his absolute concentration warring with what is clearly a love of dancing. With her high heels and how close they are dancing it would only take a tilt of heads if he were to kiss her.

  
There's no time to dwell on that sudden urge, not when Sherlock's eyes meet hers and she can see the flash of understanding followed by naked need.

 

Irene licks her lips, watching him follow the motion, her hand sliding up to his neck, even as they spin blindly across her room. She has the layout memorized and she's certain Sherlock does as well. "Ah, but can you tango?"

 

"Would you care to find out?"

 

They break position entirely, his hand at her waist sliding across her back to maneuver her closer and his other lifting her chin higher in a question or a demand or a bit of both. Irene loops her arms around his neck as his head dips, lips parting against hers.

 

Sherlock taps out the final notes against her spine, never missing a beat, just as Irene leans all her weight against him and they stumble backwards to fall across her bed.

 

Sherlock hits the bed with a muffled grunt, catching her about the waist to keep her close, draped over him.

 

The impact breaks their ravenous kisses, and Irene finds herself lightheaded and laughing, delighted. Sherlock's low chuckle joins her and they grin at each other like fools.

 

It unnerves her, that moment of delight, uninhibited and out of control in a way that Irene never allows. She quickly gets her hands and knees under her, their laughter dying out as she pulls back to catch her breath and survey the man underneath her - rumpled and wild and breathing just as hard as she is. "You're still overdressed."

 

Smirking, Sherlock's hands find the zip to her gown, dragging it down her spine. "Ladies first."

 

The dress gapes open in the front and she watches his eyes drop to her bare breasts. There is a deliberateness to their exchange that is safer than the wild delight of earlier and Irene revels in the comfort of it, of arching one eyebrow and challenging, "I'm hardly a lady."

 

"Precisely."

 

It's a compliment in the way he breathes out the word - smug and pleased and a tiny bit awed - in a way that perhaps only the two of them would understand. His hands slip underneath her gown and up her thighs until he has it bunched around her waist. Irene lifts her arms and he drags the garment and over her head, tossing it somewhere to lie crumpled on her floor. A brief flare of annoyance quickly dissolves because this is exactly why she wore it - _this_ is the Sherlock she wants to see.

 

Her hands immediately move to undo the buttons to his blazer and purple shirt, tearing them both aside until she can run her nails across his skin, relishing in his shiver of appreciation.

 

She kisses him hungrily, one hand in his hair hauling him up to sit, while his hands map the sensitive spots along her back and breasts and thighs.

 

He comes with her willingly enough, letting go of her only long enough to undo his cuffs before Irene strips off his shirt.

 

Their lips and tongues battle hungrily, bare chests pressed together and his hands at her arse. Irene shifts up to her knees, reaching between them to undo his trousers and shove them down his thighs far enough to take him in hand.

 

Sherlock hisses at the contact, teeth closing over her lip, and Irene finds all her careful patience and plans dissolving between the too-rapid beats of her heart. She drags her knickers out of the way and sinks down over him, a rush of too fast and too much that makes her feel dangerously alive.

 

They feed muffled gasps into each other's mouths. Irene releases her grip on Sherlock's hair and presses against his chest until he shifts and falls back against the bed once again, watching her with curiosity and that same wondrous bit of awe as she rises over him.

 

He's still half off her bed and only mostly undressed, and there's something thrilling in being the one to dishevel and unhinge such a meticulous, brilliant man. Irene plants her hands over his chest, nails digging into his skin, and Sherlock's fingers grip her hips as he meets her quick, rough rhythm.

 

The instant his hands are on her, he starts tapping out notes against her skin. Irene's eyes widen and Sherlock's flutter shut, a smug grin tugging at his lips even as his eyebrows knit together in concentration.

 

When his hand slides from her hip to her clit, playing the notes effortlessly across the most sensitive point of her body, Irene falls apart fast and hard and all at once. Her hips lose their rhythm but Sherlock follows right after her anyway, apparently as keyed up as she was.

 

Irene collapses forward, still fighting to catch the breath she lost when they were dancing, and Sherlock locks his arms around her waist again, as though they were not still joined, sweat pooling between their bodies.

 

"Was that your idea of a tango?" His voice is sex-roughened against her ear.

 

Irene feels the words like a caress across her skin. "There's a tango and then there's a _tango_ , Mr. Holmes," she teases silkily, though she can't deny that the idea of dancing a proper tango with him has more appeal than it should.

 

The problem, she realizes, is that by undoing Sherlock she undoes herself. From the moment they entered her bedroom, everything, every decision has been based on a selfish sort of _need_ that The Woman does not allow. That Irene thought she'd forgotten how to feel. Sherlock's hands tighten familiarly at her waist and it's utterly terrifying.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the doorbell chimes at half three, Irene strongly considers not answering at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the delay - extremely busy month! Hopefully this is back to your regularly scheduled smut.

When the doorbell chimes at half three, Irene strongly considers not answering at all. She does, mostly because she knows Sherlock will not be denied so easily, and she doesn't fancy him waking the whole neighborhood. For one utterly insane moment, she considers whether it might be easier to simply give him a key.

  
Irene throws on a dressing gown and barely waits to open the door before she heads back to her room. "You're late, again." Another case, no doubt. Not that she worries - she just dislikes interruptions to her schedule.

 

He spins her around just inside her bedroom doorway, one of his hands already undoing her gown while the other dives eagerly between her legs. Irene gasps against his mouth, as insistent as his hands. Once again, he hasn't even bothered to undress, his coat tossed haphazardly across the floor and his blazer still buttoned. "Case," he manages when he drags his mouth from hers.

 

She was right, of course. Irene lets him steer them back toward her bed, her body already coming alive under his hands. "Did you solve it?"

 

He snorts against her neck, biting her sharply for the question. "Don't I always?"

 

One hand cradles her head as he lowers her to the bed, his other already stroking purposely through her slick folds until he can sink a finger knuckle-deep. Irene loses her response to a moan when he slides down her body and fastens his mouth, hot and demanding, over her clit. She knows the question was rhetorical anyway.

 

It's a dangerously addictive habit, having him in her bed, and he's gotten far too skilled at being there. Irene fists her sheets and lets her head fall back against the pillows, her body arching up to meet his mouth and fingers, his tongue wrapped sinuously around her clit. There's no teasing tonight - his pace is hard and fast, just a little rough in all the ways she likes. Her body is getting used to him, craving his long fingers and warm breath on her skin.

 

Sherlock thrusts steadily, fingers curling just so, his mouth never letting up on her clit. It's almost embarrassing how fast Irene's vision starts to dissolve into stars and shards of light, her heels digging into his back and her mouth caught open on a moan. If it were anyone else, she'd hold back on principle, but Sherlock demands all of her in a way that is exhilaratingly terrifying.

 

Irene lets go, pleasure radiating through her body in time with the overly loud beat of her heart, centered, sparking and demanding, at Sherlock's touch as her body shudders through her orgasm. Sherlock works her through the last aftershocks before finally withdrawing, his hands lingering over her thighs as he slips from between her legs.

 

He stretches back on the bed, smug, his shoes probably making a mess of her covers as she catches her breath. He's still wound up and tense, though less-so than when he first arrived. When he doesn't move back toward her, Irene reaches over to undo his blazer. "Come here."

 

Sherlock shrugs out of his blazer and toes off his shoes, kicking them away negligently, but he catches her hand when she reaches for the buttons to his shirt. "No - I -" he sighs and closes his eyes pointedly. "Go back to sleep."

 

One of his hands is tapping restlessly against her bedding. Irene watches until his eyes flick open again, though he stares determinedly at the canopy. "Are you going to sleep at all?"

 

"No."

 

Rolling her eyes, Irene settles on her back, leaving one arm extended toward him. "Come here," she repeats firmly.

 

Sherlock looks like he might protest again but he dutifully rolls next to her, pillowing his head over her breast and curving his long body around hers. His erection presses into her but he seems determined to ignore that. "I don't -"

 

Irene runs her fingers through his curls, working out the knots and scratching her nails lightly against his scalp. She knows what he needs. "Tell me about the case."

 

He does, his fingers running across her side in wide, restless strokes that are surprisingly soothing. He tells her about the grisly murder and the lack of clues and the hours spent in the laboratory isolating the trace elements that led him to the murderer. By the time the man is in custody, explaining his lateness to their nightly meetings, Sherlock's voice is heavy and pleased and has lost some of that tense edge that drove him so restlessly into her arms. Irene falls asleep quite against her will, lulled by his voice, her questions too heavy on her tongue to escape.

 

...

 

Sherlock wakes her sometime before dawn. He's shed his clothes and hopefully slept some, though Irene is doubtful by the way his fingers stroke purposefully across her skin, his cock pressed eagerly into her side.

 

" _Irene_."

 

Her name is a soft whisper, pleading, and Irene thinks she's dreamt it as Sherlock's fingers and lips press against her heated skin.

 

Her body is already warm and ready, and Irene opens her legs sleepily, drawing him over her with her hands tangled in his hair. He kisses her urgently even as he shifts and fills her, both of them arching languorously into the other.

 

It is somehow gentle but needy, a raw desperate edge to their kisses and the slide of their bodies against one another. Irene digs her nails into Sherlock's scalp, gasping as his thumb circles her clit in time with his thrusts. His body is taut and trembling over hers already, but he has learnt to play Irene's body expertly and he demands her pleasure first with a single-mindedness that leaves her writhing under him. Irene helps them along, her hips rolling in counterpoint to his as she wraps one leg around his waist and digs her heel into his arse.

 

Sherlock buries his head in her neck, his breath ragged even as he sucks and licks at the sensitive spot over her pulse. "You're ruining me." It is low and muffled against her skin in a way that Irene knows is not a dream.

 

His thumb presses hard against her with his words and Irene comes with a gasping moan stuttering around her reply, " _Yes_."

 

He follows her almost immediately, his body shuddering against hers and his head still buried in her neck to hide his own ragged groan.

 

They lay collapsed together, sweaty and sated and lethargic. Irene strokes her hands soothingly across Sherlock's back while she watches the sun rise and thinks that he's right. She doesn't know if he meant the sex or _something else_ , but whatever is happening between them, they're ruining each other.

 

And, for once, she's not sure she has the willpower to stop.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He plays the violin for her once.

He plays the violin for her once.

 

He paces her room, instrument tucked under his chin, eyes closed. His concentration is absolute, but the flit of emotion across his face is startlingly honest and easy to read.

 

It's a rapid, manic piece at first, the notes disconcerting in their sharp contrasts, leading into a crescendo that is jarring and aching. The tones gradually harmonize as it progresses, settling into something that is vivid and beautiful. As the music calms, so does Sherlock, turning to face her, eyes still closed.

 

Reclined across her bed, Irene watches him, unable to tear her eyes away as he moves with the piece, his hands sure and steady. She's always enjoyed music, but there's something visceral in his composition, in the way he plays. It leaves her shaken and yearning, each note like a caress.

 

It's all she can do to listen to the end, body vibrating with the strings, with the effort of holding still. She's wet already, throbbing, her blood pounding in time with every note.

 

Sherlock's eyes open on the last note, meeting her eager gaze with an intensity that is shocking.

 

"Well?" He asks, smug and impatient, not breaking eye contact. "It's not finished."

 

He finally looks away, but only long enough to tuck the instrument lovingly back into its case.

 

No, of course it's not finished. How could it be, when they aren't? She can see that, and there's something almost painfully vulnerable not only in that he shared it with her but in her response.

 

Sherlock straightens and turns toward her, mouth open, no doubt annoyed by her lack of immediate reply.

 

She crosses the room quickly, all but throwing herself at him, frenetic, hands in his hair as she arches up on her tiptoes and drags his mouth to hers, moaning at the contact.

 

For a moment he is frozen, surprised, but then his hands cradle her face with the same care he took with his violin. He lets her walk them both back to her bed, his mouth eager under hers and his cock already erect and hard, caught between them.

 

She doubts he's ever had a reception quite like this. Good, because she's never felt quite like this.

 

It's easy to shed her dressing gown - frustrating that he's still wearing so much more. Irene tugs at his blazer and shirt irritably, buttons popping in her insistence. Catching on quickly, Sherlock's hands join hers in undressing him.

 

They hit the bed without any grace, muffled grunts caught by one another's lips. They part only as Irene presses Sherlock back against the bedding, divesting him of the last of his clothing with a wicked impatience that she can't be bothered to curb.

 

He reaches for her with an arched eyebrow and smug smirk, hair already mussed from her hands.

 

But that traitorous part of her is still aching for him, roused and stroked into a frenzy by each note torn from his instrument. Irene finds herself completely undone already in a way she can't recall feeling for anyone before. She _wants_. Him. Desperately.

 

She crawls across his lap, reaching between them for his hard cock and guiding it to her wet, aching sex. It's a startling, delicious burn as she takes him inside her, not quite giving her body enough time to stretch and accommodate the intrusion.

 

Sherlock's eyes snap to hers in surprise, his mouth open on a gasp, hands clutching her hips in a grip that is anything but delicate. They both moan once he's fully inside her, involuntary sounds that feel like relief.

 

Irene throws her head back at the sensations washing across her as she starts to move with slow, long rolls of her hips, her muscles already fluttering as pleasure spreads tantalizingly over her skin. She could have come just listening to him play, she realizes, and the thought would be more unsettling if it her body wasn't already basking in a mounting tide of desire.

 

There's something snaking through her body beyond lust, something she doesn't want to name. Irene shifts forward until she's lying across Sherlock, close enough to kiss him again. To mask the needy sounds that escape her with his mouth, to thrust her tongue against his as though she were still in control.

 

His hands sweep across her back, long strokes interspersed with the tap of his fingers against her spine. Notes, she realizes, already half gone. Not just notes - it's his piece - he's still playing for her.

 

All the pent up pleasure and emotion crests and bursts inside her, sending Irene headlong into a shuddering, powerful orgasm. His lips muffle her cry into something indistinguishable rather than his name. _Sherlock._

 

She's still caught in the midst of it, her hips losing their rhythm, when Sherlock rolls them with a low growl, pressing her back into her bed and picking up their pace where she left off. He braces himself with one hand, the other sliding to her hip with only the slightest pause before he finds his music again.

 

Irene breaks their kiss to catch her breath, hands clutching at his hair and back, moans spilling across her lips. She loses track of time as they move together, lost in a kind of bliss she so rarely indulges in and Sherlock seems determined to draw out of her.

  
His breath puffs faster over her cheek, curls sweat-slicked to his brow, but Sherlock keeps the roll of his hips long and steady, his arms trembling with the effort.

 

Irene is trembling too, arching and writhing under him, her nails digging furrows in his back, eliciting a delicious moan from him. It's all too much and not enough, and Irene has never known when it was time to stop. Not that Sherlock is stopping - he drives her relentlessly into her next orgasm on the tails of her last, his thumb just sliding to stroke across her clit like the bow to his violin and she's lost again.

 

She bites her lip so hard that she tastes her own blood, not wanting to know what she might call out. All feeling is condensed to the throb of her own aching pulse, the race of Sherlock's heart, the violin piece echoing in her ears through each stroke of her skin.

 

Sherlock kisses her again - all the harder when he tastes her blood - groaning raggedly as he finally follows her over the edge, collapsing over her.

 

Their lips and tongues gentle as their bodies still, sated and quivering.

 

Irene runs her hands soothingly across Sherlock's back, feeling the welts left by her nails, and doesn't want to let go.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He can't solve the case and he's out of sorts, wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit late posting this chapter, sorry. In my defense: it is quite a large chapter.
> 
> Two more chapters after this!

He can't solve the case and he's out of sorts, wild. He paces her bedroom, rapid-fire, agitated. His hands scruffing through his hair in a way that says he's considering pulling it out.

 

She opens the drawer of her vanity calmly. Sherlock's eyes dart toward the contents and then away again just as quickly. "Would you like something to... take the edge off, perhaps?"

 

Sherlock snorts, derisive - though that derision is clearly directed inwards. "I thought you didn't approve of my recreational habits. Other than you, of course."

 

It's a cheap shot - a deflection - and Irene ignores it pointedly. "I have quite a thorough collection."

 

Predictably, Sherlock looks more chastised than if she'd censored him directly. They both know exactly how far they can push each other, since they both make it something of a study to test those boundaries. "I only use cocaine." The usual bite to his tone is somewhat lacking in lieu of an apology.

 

Irene eyes him carefully, curious. "But surely you've _experimented_ with others?"

 

"What for?"

 

He's pacing again, the whinging edge back to his tone to belie the curiosity. Irene slides the drawer shut, reclining as she watches him. "I'm disappointed, Mr. Holmes. I thought you prided yourself on being thorough."

 

He huffs. "Fine. What do you suggest? Surely you have something in mind, after all that."

 

She opens her fist to reveal a small syringe. "Of course."

 

"What is it?"

 

"Does it matter?" At his look, she laughs. "Please, if I wanted to poison you, I've had ample opportunity before now with far less obvious methods. Besides, it would hardly be in my best interest, given our arrangement."

 

With precise, rapid strides, he crosses to her, rolls up his sleeve and extends his arm, hand clenched into a fist.

 

She does love it when he's so obstinate and obedient at the same time.

 

He's stood so close to her that, when she stands, they're nearly touching. Irene spins him around until he's the one pressed against her vanity, her fingers trailing down the veins and scars of his arm until her fingertips can trace the lines on his palm. While his gaze is following her fingers, she drops the syringe onto the vanity, using the momentary distraction to place a single white tab on her tongue instead.

 

When he glances up at her, she rises up on her tiptoes and kisses him, running just the tip of her tongue over the seam of his lips. His mouth opens under hers instantly, despite the tense confusion in his posture, and Irene carefully twists her tongue in an intricate maneuver to pass him the pill before breaking their kiss.

 

She slides her lips across his jaw to his ear, intending to whisper the instruction to swallow, but he does so almost immediately. It makes her pause, startled by the implication: either he's already deduced what she's given him or there's a level of carelessness or trust that is equally alarming. She recovers quickly, adopting her work voice to whisper, "Very good," before withdrawing and dropping back to the floor.

 

Sherlock watches her with sharp eyes and doesn't move to step away. "3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine, abbreviated MDMA, colloquially known as 'Ecstasy' due to the enhanced sensory perception and general sense of well-being it induces through stimulation of serotonin and, to a lesser extent, dopamine and noradrenaline production."

 

He's showing off; she's impressed. Irene pushes him down to her chair and climbs neatly onto his lap. "Well, well, you do know your drugs. Unless you're guessing?"

 

He gestures toward their current positions with a shrug, his sleeve still rolled up. "Dominatrix. White tablet delivered orally. Unless you've decided to poison me after all, the options were limited."

 

The effect of Ecstasy is rapid though not immediate, which can be a considerable disadvantage in her usual line of work, where her guests are time-limited. With Sherlock, there are no limitations.

 

Irene slides her hand toward his pulse, noting the temperature of his skin and watching for the telltale dilation of his eyes and flush to his cheeks when the drug hits. Given his extensive cocaine tolerance, it's difficult to calculate precisely what the effect will be or how long it will take to come on.

 

"I believe we've already established that, were I planning your murder, I would never choose something so obvious."

 

Sherlock allows her fingertips to rest over his pulse, one eyebrow arched pointedly. "No, you're simply trying to induce an artificial sense of euphoria so I no longer care that the case remains unsolved."

 

"Is it working?"

 

The corner of his mouth twists in what might be a smile, his eyes drawn to the discarded syringe on her vanity. "What was in the syringe?"

 

She'd ask him to make a deduction but it's clear from the slightly sharp edge to his words that he'd be guessing; he never would have asked otherwise. "Ketamine."

 

He snorts derisively. "The horse tranquilizer, what would possibly be the point of that?"

 

Irene's eyes narrow at his dismissal, even though she'd also dismissed it as an option immediately. She starts unbuttoning his shirt slowly and deliberately, his heartbeat echoing under her palms. "Certain people find it highly enjoyable in the right circumstances. Perhaps I should try it on you sometime."

 

"I'd be comatose or incoherent. How incredibly dull."

 

Her hackles rise at his word choice, exactly as intended. Irene takes a careful breath and keeps her voice and hands steady. "I should think you know me well enough by now, Mr. Holmes, to realize that I am never dull. Or do you disagree?"

 

He inclines his head, tone losing some of its edge. "No, certainly not dull."

 

It's a compliment, coming from him.

 

"Then you won't argue when I instruct you to drink plenty of water," Irene arches one eyebrow pointedly.

 

Sherlock scowls, and then his eyes narrow. "Not going to join me, then?"

 

She offers him her most mysterious smile as she pushes his shirt off his shoulders. She could have easily swallowed a second pill without him noticing. "Who says I didn't already?"

 

"You're lying."

 

Irene shrugs, unrepentant. She does not like the loss of control inherent with recreational drug use, and she certainly is not about to cede control while testing Sherlock's limits at the same time. "Perhaps next time."

 

"Promises, promises."

 

His shirt falls to the floor.

 

"Now, now," Irene shifts forward, hearing his breath catch at the unexpected friction, "I always keep my promises."

 

His hands instinctively reach for her, sliding under her dressing gown with practiced ease to settle, warm and heavy against her thighs, urging her to make the same motion again.

 

Still, Sherlock arches one eyebrow and mocks, "Promises. Demands. They're all the same with you."

 

The chair is much too small to hold the both of them for any length of time. Irene withdraws after a moment, standing and offering Sherlock her hand, which he regards with some amusement.

 

Irene rolls her eyes. If it's her demands he wants, she's happy to oblige him. "Get undressed then lie on the bed, on your stomach. And do try not to suffocate - you'd make a very unattractive corpse."

 

Sherlock snorts, still amused. "You just don't want to explain the presence of a male corpse in your bed."

 

But Sherlock does as he's bid, stripping the remainder of his clothing with his typical efficiency and throwing himself down on her bed in a gesture that is somehow both lazy and tense. His eyes follow her as she fetches her water glass and crosses the room, clearly not sure quite what to expect.

 

Irene arches one brow and meets his eyes steadily, letting her dressing gown slip from her shoulders to pool at her feet. "Who says I'd have to?"

 

Sherlock makes a sound that might be a laugh, relaxing into her bedding as she sets the water pointedly in his line of sight on her bedside table and he pointedly ignores it. "I have every confidence that you could make a body disappear if need be."

 

"As you should."

 

Irene carefully straddles the small of his back, balancing on her knees as she leans forward to place her hands at his shoulders. His skin is already warm to the touch, but he tenses immediately. Irene pauses, considering. "Do you not like to be touched?"

 

"No."

 

She'd suspected as much based on their initial encounters. Of course, he has never shown any aversion to her touch, but there has always been an explicitly sexual context to their interactions and perhaps he is uncomfortable in other contexts. "And by me?"

 

"No," she withdraws her hands immediately, rising up on her knees with the intent of giving up this foolish notion all together. His hand reaches out and catches her thigh, guiding her back to her previous position as he clarifies, "Not you."

 

It's disconcerting the way she feels her stomach untwist at his touch and words, as though she would have been genuinely upset if he'd not been comfortable with her touching him in anything other than a sexual fashion.

  
To distract both of them, Irene selects a massage oil from her bedside table and pours it into one palm, warming the oil in her hands before, tentatively - and when was the last time she was _tentative_ about anything? - resting them once again against his shoulders.

 

When Sherlock does not flinch away, Irene begins to move, working her fingers into tightened muscles and smoothing her palms in circular motions.

 

Irene can't remember the last time she gave a massage unless it was to soothe an injury she'd inflicted. Still, she has the skillset, even if she is a bit out of practice.

 

He's still a bit skinny from the cocaine but she can feel the corded muscles under his skin - he has the build of a swimmer or a runner: the latter, almost certainly, with his chosen profession in mind. He's also dreadfully rigid, even in a semi-relaxed state, and Irene wonders if he's ever had a massage before - this man in her bed who doesn't like to be touched and disdains interpersonal relationships.

 

Irene is not particularly gentle in her massages and she doesn't hold back with Sherlock - she never does.

 

He doesn't seem to mind, hands falling relaxed by his side and his eyes drifting shut as she works her way methodically down his back, slowly exercising the knots as she goes. She can just make out his face under his messy curls but she doesn't need to see his wince to feel it when she hits a particularly tender spot.

 

Sherlock makes a soft sound of appreciation as her fingertips trip across the too prominent bones of his spine. By the time she digs her knuckles into the stubborn, tight spots across his lower back, there are soft keening noises spilling uninhibited across his lips and his skin is flushed and warm under her hands, his hips subtly rocking into the bed.

 

The Ecstasy has kicked in then; good.

 

Irene rises back up on her knees, reaching for more oil as she instructs, "Roll over."

 

It shows how relaxed he is that Sherlock obeys her without any snide comment, rolling onto his back to blink lazily up at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he reaches for her.

 

Irene bats his hands away, tsking. "You're not finished yet, Mr. Holmes."

 

"Clearly."

 

Sherlock's lips curl into the beginnings of a smirk as his eyes drop pointedly between them to where his cock juts up, fully erect and straining for contact.

 

His state of arousal is hardly a surprise; his cruder side, however, _is_ a pleasant surprise. Perhaps she's rubbing off on him.

 

"Drink your water like a good boy, and then hands at your sides," she instructs, straddling his stomach and ignoring his arousal for the moment.

 

Sherlock shoots her a look that is simultaneously annoyed and amused. "You're deriving far too much pleasure from my altered state."

 

"Isn't that the entire point of our experiments? To derive pleasure from one another?"

 

Irene waits with one arched brow, but Sherlock reaches for his water in lieu of a response. He's so much more amenable with Ecstasy softening his sharper edges - Irene has difficulty deciding which way she prefers him. Or perhaps, like her, he also finds it difficult to articulate the point of their extended _experiment_ together.

 

As soon as the glass is returned to her bedside table, Irene continues her massage, sliding her oil-slicked hands across Sherlock's front with the same thoroughness she applied to his back. She makes careful note of his mildly elevated heartrate as her palms circle his chest and shoulders, fingers working around his neck.

 

Now that he can see her, Sherlock keeps his eyes open, his gaze burning across her with an intensity that is only heightened by the drugs coursing through his system, even as he fails to stifle the needy sounds that escape his lips at her every touch.

 

It's more intimate than Irene expected; she's tempted to reach behind her and slide her hand over his cock to put them back in more familiar territory. She shakes away the impulse; Irene is not in the habit of keeping things comfortable or safe if there's a limit she can push instead - especially one of her own.

 

Besides, the sexual component is inevitable. She can feel his muscles twitch under his skin, his hips struggling to not to arch up under her weight, his cock against her arse, hard and leaking precum already in a sticky trail against her skin as she moves.

 

Her hands work their way down his arms instead, lifting his hand to rest on his stomach between them so she can massage the stress out of his wide palms and long, musician's fingers. There's something undeniably erotic about caressing his strong fingers between her own, smaller hands that pools low in her stomach. Sherlock must feel it too, the way he moans, his cock twitching against her arse.

 

She takes his other hand when she finishes with the first, repeating the massage with careful, controlled motions to stop her hands from shaking.

 

As she slides her hands up to sweep back to his shoulders, his fingers close around her wrist.

 

He catches her other wrist and rolls them until Irene is the one on her back, looking up at Sherlock with what is probably undisguised surprise.

 

"Your turn."

 

The position is undoubtedly more sexual, with him suddenly between her legs, and Irene has a moment to wonder whether he's through with foreplay and intends to simply have her.

 

She thinks she'd let him.

 

But Sherlock releases her wrists, withdrawing to his side and regarding her with an expectant eyebrow.

 

Recovering herself, Irene offers him a look that dares him to impress her and twists gracefully to lie on her stomach, adjusting the pillows until she can comfortably lay her neck to one side.

 

Sherlock straddles her thighs, hardly touching her at all, arms long enough that he doesn't need her to bear his weight to reach her back. And then his hands settle at her shoulders, warm and large and slicked with massage oil as his fingers start to work out the tension she habitually carries there.

 

His knowledge of human anatomy is clearly extensive, probably a requirement in his chosen career, and his knowledge of _her_ body is equally so. His hands move swiftly and surely, identifying and working out every kink and knot she has.

 

If she didn't know better, Irene would say this was not his first time giving a massage. She can tell though, by the way he hesitates slightly when he finds a particularly sore spot and by the way he is, discretely but distinctly, following her own path exactly. His technique is a little light, as though he's afraid to hurt her. Irene suspects the closest he's come to a massage before is measuring the pressure required for bruising on corpses.

 

She's hardly a corpse though, and he's not going to break her. "Deeper," she demands, clear and concise.

 

It takes a moment before he understands, and then his fingers dig into her back with just a bit more pressure, leaving Irene the one moaning her approval.

 

She gives into the sensations, relaxing into her bedding as Sherlock utilizes all his anatomical expertise, musician's skill, and innately steep learning curve to melt away the dominatrix and leave only Irene, grounded by his palms sliding across her skin.

 

It should be terrifying but, when he finishes, the loss of his hands on her body feels acute.

 

Sherlock slowly moves off of her, the bed shifting with him. After a moment, Irene rolls over languidly, her body already feeling far too pliable under his skilled hands.

 

Hands that hover just over her breasts, Sherlock's eyebrows knitting together. "This seems rather more overtly sexual in nature."

 

Irene laughs. He's right, of course. And it was, after all, inevitable. "I'd say more _sensual_ ," she corrects with a smirk before she buries her hands in his hair and drags him down to her for a decidedly sexual kiss.

 

It's enthusiastic and demanding and a bit sloppy for their usual fair, all teeth and tongues and keening, base need. Sherlock's hands cup her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples. Irene moans appreciatively, her hands sliding down Sherlock's body to urge him between her thighs.

 

His weight settles over her with a shudder; Sherlock braces himself on one hand while the other begins to edge down her body, his cock hard against her thigh.

 

Irene ignores the intent behind that hand, shifting her hips until his cock drags across her already slippery wet sex, eliciting a choked groan from Sherlock. He still resists though, stubbornly pulling back, his hand nearly to her sex and his brow furrowed with concentration.

 

Irene breaks their kiss, "Oh, for goodness' sake," and reaches between them to wrap her fingers around his cock, stroking him firmly.

 

He makes a sound that is mostly a whimper, hips bucking into her hand and the rest of his body freezing as she guides him inside her.

 

They both moan, bodies coming together as Sherlock sets a slow, deep rhythm, needy, blissful sounds escaping him every time he sinks inside her.

 

His heart is already racing against hers, their oiled bodies pressed close together, and his breath coming in heavy pants against her neck.

 

She cradles his warm body against hers, hips rolling up to meet his thrusts, one hand trailing down his arm to settle at his wrist, fingers against his pulse, keeping careful track of it and his needy moans, even as the rest of her body thrums and burns with him.

 

It doesn't take long, after the extended foreplay of the massages, before all the lax pleasure starts to coil and tighten and _throb_.

 

Irene slides her hands across Sherlock's back and then her nails, dragging a shuddering moan from him as his hips stutter and then press into her with renewed vigor, trying desperately to somehow bury himself deeper inside her, the angle rubbing her clit deliciously between them. He comes with a strangled sound, teeth closing hard over her collarbone, and the shocking bite of pain sends Irene along with him, her entire body tightening around him as she cries out.

 

He collapses over her, breathing heavily, his heart still galloping along, hard to distinguish from her own racing pulse.

 

Sherlock soothes his tongue over the bite mark on her skin, pressing lazy, open mouthed kisses across her shoulder and neck until his lips find her pulse, lingering there. Even as his cock is softening inside her, he sucks and nibbles at her throat in a way that makes Irene writhe but is certain to leave vivid marks.

 

Irene moans, hands clutching at him, and Sherlock chuckles, low and dark with his teeth against her throat.

 

Her entire body shivers in delight.

 

Irene's eyes flutter open as Sherlock slips out of her, withdrawing only long enough to slide down the bed to settle with his head between her splayed thighs. He surprises her still, constantly; it's exhilarating.

 

The look he gives her is positively filthy.

 

His tongue darts out to dance across her oversensitive clit, leaving Irene shuddering and wrapping her hands in his hair. She can feel his smirk against her skin as he licks her, tongue pressing inside her where she is still slippery slick from their combined release.

 

He pauses long enough to muse, "You taste like me," in a low voice that sends a new rush of wetness to her throbbing sex, and then he lowers his mouth to the same spot, all but devouring her.

 

Irene arches helplessly into his mouth, moans spilling across her lips as her body races back toward orgasm. His hands find her thighs, fingers digging into her skin to still her hips and open her wider to him.

 

Sherlock takes his time, exploring her as though it's the first time all over again, though he already knows all the spots that make her whimper and writhe and he has no compunction against exploiting them. He's far from quiet either, appreciative noises rumbling, muffled against her skin, the vibrations sparking and tripping across her nerves with each thrust of his tongue inside her.

 

Irene's fingers tighten in his hair, feeling more desperate than she would ever admit, her body teetering on the edge of her second orgasm. He relents perhaps only in an effort to keep his hair, his mouth finally closing over her clit as he slides two fingers inside her, curling them roughly up.

 

The pleasure crackles and snaps, coalescing under his touch until Irene's entire body arches up with the force of her orgasm, breathless moans stuttering across her lips.

 

He stays between her legs until the pleasure twists into sensitivity and she yanks sharply at his hair before releasing him.

 

She doesn't have to open her eyes to know his smirk will be positively insufferable.

 

Sherlock wipes his face and hand negligently with one of her bedsheets, exactly as smug as she'd feared, though his breathing is ragged and his eyes are still blown dark.

 

He crawls back up her body to kiss her as though he's starving for her, stealing whatever breath she's only just regained.

 

He's already hard again, pressed against her thigh, his hands roaming her body everywhere he can reach. Irene shudders, breaking their kiss to gasp in needed oxygen as Sherlock's lips immediately trail back to her throat with a noise caught somewhere between a growl and a whimper.

 

"Again?" She manages just barely to keep the surprise out of her voice, her body sparking with something like anticipation.

 

The answer is perhaps obvious to both of them. Sherlock lifts his head to search her expression carefully before shifting his hips and pressing inside her in one quick thrust.

 

He inhales sharply at the feel of her clenching around him, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. " _Fuck._ "

 

There's that same dangerous lack of restraint in his curse that Irene recognizes from his cocaine highs. It should probably alarm her, but all it does is make her shudder and want to push him further.

 

This time, Sherlock's pace is hard and fast, and Irene matches him with the same wild enthusiasm, their bodies sliding together, slick with sweat and oil. She can feel him, hot and hard inside her as her body grips and squeezes him, still caught in the aftershocks of her last orgasm. They're both wound dangerously tight from drugs and endorphins, their bodies shaking with the effort of meeting their demands.

 

Irene locks her legs and arms around Sherlock, drawing him closer and urging him on. Each thrust is a bit rougher, driving her up the bed until her head nearly cracks the headboard. She throws out one hand to catch herself as Sherlock wraps an arm around her waist and yanks her up, arching her into his thrusts.

 

His lips are still at her throat, growling, whimpering noises spilling across her skin, pleasure zipping between points of contact.

 

Her entire body is aching and throbbing, vibrating with need, something that feels deliriously like bliss curling her toes and digging her nails into wood and Sherlock's back.

 

Irene throws her head back and screams.

 

The ecstasy washes over her in a molten wave, rising and rising until everything goes hot and white.

 

When the world comes back into focus, Sherlock is a heavy weight across her, his breath as loud and ragged as her pulse in her ears.

 

It takes more than a few moments before she can hear herself think above her racing heart, before she can sort out his pulse from hers.

 

She carefully stretches out her legs. "Water."

 

Sherlock watches her with a idle, self-satisfied look. "Still doubting my tolerance?"

 

"For both of us," Irene clarifies, her voice rough and scratchy in a way that only serves to make Sherlock look more insufferably smug.

 

Sherlock hums in what might be agreement, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to her shoulder before wrapping his arms more securely around her and nuzzling his nose into her neck, still buried inside her.

 

It's as close to a hug as they've ever managed.

 

And it should be stifling, having his weight pinning her to the bed. They both really do need water, between the exertion and the drugs and her throat, and it's entirely possible Kate will be knocking on the door before long to find out why Irene screamed.

 

But there's something that feels warm and safe in being all wrapped up together like this. Something that makes her never want to move again.

 

Sherlock's breath is warm and even, his heartrate strong and level, rumbling against her chest.

 

_Contentment._ The word floats sleepily behind eyes that have already slipped closed, her limbs already leaden with a pleasant sort of exhaustion.

 

The feeling is contentment.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They settle into an odd sort of routine.

They settle into an odd sort of routine. They spend their days and evenings apart - he to solve cases or irritate his brother at his leisure - Irene to misbehave.

 

She has events to attend - charity balls and dinner invitations. Irene strolls through the ranks of London's nobility and politicians, gathering their secrets as she goes. There's no reason to inform them that she's not currently taking on clients, and she enjoys the challenge of playing political games and intrigues without the aid of her riding crop.

 

Most of them know who she is and what she does, of course. But they are more afraid to offend her than to invite her, currying her favor blatantly and predictably in the hopes that she will keep their secrets.

 

When she tires of politics, Irene immerses herself in the art world, brushing up on her forgeries and maintaining a critical eye for which pieces catch the highest price.

 

The anonymous Swiss bank account remains untouched and unremarked upon. Irene has plenty of means with which to support herself in the manner to which she is accustomed - some of them even legal.

 

Every evening - usually at the stroke of nine - Sherlock appears at her door and they retire to her bedroom for the night. Oftentimes they linger in the mornings, discussing Sherlock's latest case or debating the value of a Monet piece, and gradually they start to spend the afternoons together as well.

 

Of course, he doesn't always have a case on. Even London is not quite that violent. The boredom eats at him those days, and he sits indolently in her bed well into the afternoon or evening, his mind far away or else his body shot full of chemicals.

 

Today is clearly one of those days. Irene is just applying the last of her lipstick and Sherlock is still sprawled naked across her bed. They had an enjoyable enough morning, but now Sherlock is clearly bored and Irene has plans to go out.  


She debates whether she ought to demand he get dressed and throw him out or leave him to entertain himself.

 

It hardly matters. Irene already had a stern talking to with Kate about not disturbing her unless specifically requested, and she presumes her assistant enjoys being suddenly flush with free time at the same compensation. Kate arches an eyebrow but does not ask, which is just as well because Irene has no intention of mentioning, let alone explaining, Sherlock's presence in her room and her life.

 

Before Irene can demand something of him, Sherlock rolls himself out of her bed with a heavy sigh, reaching for his coat and riffling through the pockets until he emerges with his supplies. It's to be cocaine this time then, not nicotine. He flops back onto her bed and begins his preparations. "Fancy a hit?" He doesn't bother to look up at the perfunctory query, something vaguely dismissive in his tone.

 

"I won't use a needle," Irene announces, watching Sherlock's reflection in her vanity mirror.

 

Sherlock stills, eyeing her with some surprise. "That won't present any difficulties."

 

"Good."

 

She tucks her lipstick in her handbag and leaves without a second glance.

 

...

 

When Irene returns from her luncheon, three new bank cards tucked into her wallet in just as many names, Sherlock is fully dressed and reading a menagerie of newspapers in her bed, a small packet of white powder set conspicuously on her vanity.

 

She's not surprised he's found a way into her house once again when she's not at home, since he's clearly been out. There really was never any point in a spare key.

 

Irene takes her time removing her jewelry. She keeps her voice an inscrutable combination of teasing and professional. "You haven't started without me, I trust?"

 

"Of course not," he scoffs, watching her intently. "I thought you didn't -?"

 

"Not usually, no," Irene agrees, the unspoken qualifier that nothing with him is _usual_.

 

"It won't be as potent as injection," he warns her, casually, crossing the room to stand behind her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "Prolonged use can damage the sense of smell."

 

She imagines those are the reasons he chose injection, but she does not plan to make a habit of this. She's indulged occasionally in the past and, if he's so determined to while away his days in a drug-induced state, Irene intends to join him, just once. "I'll manage."

 

Sherlock gives her a short nod, removing a case containing a small metal tray, a knife and two thin tubes from the inner pocket of his blazer. They look medical grade, nicked from a hospital or laboratory, surely. He makes two neat lines of powder with brisk efficiency and extends one of the tubes to her. "After you."

 

If he expects her to hesitate, he doesn't know her at all. Irene bends to the line of powder, inhaling it in a single, long breath, her nostril burning as the cocaine crystals rush past.

 

She steps back and offers Sherlock an arch look, watching him bend over her vanity to snort the white powder in one fluid movement. His nostrils are flared when he turns to her, eyes dark and curious as he observes her. "Less efficient this way - it'll take a moment to set in fully."

 

"I remember."

 

He smirks and says nothing, which is a commentary in and of itself.

 

Irene busies herself taking down her hair and trying to ignore the feel of his eyes watching her. Her skin tingles under his perusal and suddenly she can tell, with a vivid sort of clarity, that she _wants_ him. She's been denying it to herself for ages, perhaps since the very beginning, but it's all so obvious, she's a bit disgusted at herself for allowing the deception.

 

More to the point, it's equally clear that he wants her. It's not merely sexual - though that would be unusual enough for both of them - it's the race of keeping up with his intellect and the thrill when she does.

 

"Brainy is the new sexy," Irene muses, tasting each word on her lips.

 

His brow furrows, eyes intense. "What does that mean?"

 

She meets his eyes in her vanity mirror rather than directly, arching one eyebrow and challenging. "Make a deduction."

 

His tolerance is better but she can still see the synapses racing behind his eyes in parallel to the rush she can feel in her own mind. She likes watching his mind work, racing him to observations only they can see. "Oh. I see."

 

His hand on her shoulder is a warm and familiar weight as he undoes her zip. It's not supposed to be a familiar motion for either of them, she knows; it's been made glaringly obvious that neither of them prefers to be touched, though it never seems to matter around each other.

 

Irene allows him to undress her, watching the concentration in his features through the mirror as he does so. Her skin tingles where he touches her, nerves alight and primed with the chemicals racing through her system. Her dress puddles at her feet, soon followed by her bra and knickers. His eyes continue to trace her naked form, no less intensely.

 

Stepping out of her clothing, Irene turns and meets Sherlock's gaze head-on. There's a recognition there that leaves something like a smile curving at both of their lips.

 

He's never shared this with anyone before, she realizes. The man who makes his own drugs and doesn't enjoy _social interactions_. But he's sharing it with her because she asked him to.

 

She wants to see the world how he does - to feel the rush and race of cocaine through her system and how slow and obvious everything else feels by comparison. She's felt all this before, of course, but not with him and that makes all the difference.

 

Sherlock gives her an expectant look. There's a challenge to this, with him, like everything between them. They push each other's limits, constantly.

 

In answer, Irene lets her smile turn into something sharper and more knowing. There's no one she can imagine pushing her limits with but Sherlock; not anymore.

 

She rests her hands against his chest, the heat of his skin warm against her palms even through his clothes, and pushes hard, catching Sherlock off guard and sending him stumbling back until his knees hit the bed. She follows him immediately, swiftly straddling him and starting to undress him with an impatience she doesn't normally allow herself.

 

He recovers rapidly, of course, sitting up and helping to shrug out of his blazer and shirt, one large, warm hand sliding down the length of her back just to watch her shudder.

 

"What does it feel like?"

 

Irene makes a sound that might be derision or laugher, feeling her pulse race and thud under her skin. "Shouldn't you be the expert?"

 

Sherlock catches one of her wrists, thumb stroking maddeningly slowly over her traitorous pulse. "To you."

 

It feels like every one of her senses is finely honed and focused on the man beneath her. On the subtle expressions that shift across his brow and the curl of his lips, once so indecipherable and now plain as day: lust, amusement, inquisitiveness.

 

She wonders what her own face must betray by the way he studies it, what he can tell in the racing of her pulse.

 

It feels like power and like a dangerous weakness, as though her sense of control is just an illusion. This is exactly why she so rarely indulges in drugs: Irene does not allow herself to be out of control.

 

Not with anyone except him.

 

It's exhilarating. "Dangerous."

 

Sherlock laughs, genuinely pleased, clearly having deduced all the words she swallowed back. "All the best things are," and she knows he's including her in that summation.

 

He's dangerous. Unpredictable. His hands sweeping across her body with none of his normal restraint, as though he can't stop touching her.

 

They are dangerous, together, this _want_ that is between them.

 

Instead of pulling away, Irene surges forward, catching Sherlock's jaw in her hands and covering his mouth with hers. There's something searching and demanding and uninhibited in their kiss, something that feels perilously like neither of them are in control.

 

Her hands hastily unfasten his trousers, one wrapping around his cock to feel him throbbing in her fist, relishing the way he groans into her mouth at the contact. She strokes him twice before they reluctantly part for air and to remove the last of Sherlock's clothing, settling more fully on her bed.

 

Irene feels greedy, like she wants everything _right now_ , and she can't decide where to start. She understands abruptly how Sherlock felt when he showed up at her door and demanded _everything_.

 

Of course, he notices her moment of indecision, eyes razor sharp even without the aid of stimulants.

 

"It helps to find something to focus on," he offers.

 

That's easy for him to say, with his high tolerance and years of practice at being high and functioning. "What do you normally focus on? A murder case? Because I'm afraid I haven't one of those on hand, do you?" He gives her a look that says it's _obvious_ , and suddenly it is. "Oh."

 

His focus has been entirely on _her_.

 

There are a million things her racing thoughts could focus on as well - from petty tasks to international intrigues - and yet she's his perfect mirror, her thoughts caught up in him just as his are on her.

 

As soon as she gives into that realization, it's easy to decide where to start.

 

"On your back," she snaps out the directive, licking her lips in a manner that is almost certainly predatory as Sherlock obeys with a smirk.

 

When Irene swings around until her back is against her headboard and carefully straddles his face, she can feel his confusion even without seeing his expression. She drops to all fours over his stomach, burying a smile in a nipping bite of his hip.

 

Sherlock immediately cranes his neck to run the flat of his tongue along her folds, his hands gripping her thighs to adjust her where he wants her.

 

The sensation of his tongue against her skin makes her body jump with pleasant surprise at each lick and stroke. Irene moans and tosses her hair over her shoulder, lowering her head to press a chaste kiss to the tip of his cock.

 

Sherlock's entire body goes stiff under her, and she relishes catching the brilliant Sherlock Holmes off guard.

 

Honestly, they should've tried this ages ago.

 

Irene makes an impatient noise, wrapping her tongue around the head of his cock, and Sherlock comes back to life with a strangled groan against her sex, dragging his tongue through her folds and up to flick against her clit in retaliation.

 

Oh, they _definitely_ should've tried this ages ago.

 

Desire races through her body and pools at her sex, heavy and throbbing, edged on by the point of Sherlock's tongue. They're at each other's mercy in this position and they both know they lack that utterly.

 

Irene takes his cock in her mouth, all the way to the base, and Sherlock makes a choked sound against her clit before pressing one long finger inside her in retaliation as she wraps a hand around the base of his cock and begins to slide her mouth over him in a slow, teasing rhythm. It's a competition between them, to see who can get the other off first, as though it could ever have been anything else.

 

Her senses are on fire - from the cocaine or the challenge or the sensation, it's impossible to say - as Sherlock presses a second finger inside her, curling them up to stroke her walls as he pumps them slowly and firmly, his tongue swirling around her clit.

 

Irene moans, mouth full of his cock, and Sherlock twitches under her, his fingers driving in harder and his mouth closing over her clit. She withdraws to catch her breath and wrap her tongue around just the head of his cock, sucking hard, her hand stroking where her mouth left off before sliding down to squeeze his balls as she swallows him back down.

 

It's all heat and lust and throbbing, pounding desire after that. Every stroke and suck and lick driving them both to new heights until it's hard to breathe or focus and they're both moaning and whimpering against each other's skin, sensitive nerve endings flaring and shuddering at the sensation as they both try to hold back their own release while driving the other on.

 

Irene wins, barely, taking Sherlock all the way in her mouth and swallowing her moan as her thighs start to tremble. He all but growls, teeth grazing her clit as his hips jerk erratically and he spills down her throat.

 

His cock slips from her mouth with a wet pop, giving her just enough time to swallow and catch a breath before his fingers press hard at her G-spot in time with his tongue flicking her clit, and Irene comes with a hitching moan, her back arching and her nails digging into Sherlock's thighs.

 

The ecstasy steals her breath completely, Sherlock's expert fingers working her through it so that it's hard to even come down, her sex clenching around him while her breath remains ragged and her pulse pounds erratically. She makes a gasping, keening noise, and Sherlock withdraws with a last lingering lick across her sex and a low groan.

 

Irene rolls gracelessly to her side, collapsing against the bed, her head by Sherlock's thigh.

 

Sherlock's hand skims lazily up her leg before he shifts to lay upside down with her. Her heart is still racing along with her mind, dissecting the differences between sex on cocaine and not, though it's impossible to account for everything because she's never done this with him, and...

 

His hand trails down her arm, feather light, to rest with his fingertips over her pulse.

 

It's alarming how easily his touch grounds her. How reassuring it is to realize that, while she's out of control, Sherlock is not. She's under no illusions that he snorted enough cocaine to do anything other than take the edge off, given what she knows of his normal usage.

 

Irene lets her eyes open, focusing first on the ceiling and her breathing, and then turning to face Sherlock once she can feel her pulse settling back to something approaching its normal rate.

 

He's watching her intently, something like concern in the lines of his forehead as he reaches out and brushes a sweaty strand of her hair out of her face, hand cupping her cheek and thumb lingering against her lip for a long moment.

 

"That was a pleasant enough diversion." He offers, clearly waiting for her response. Casual, because that's what she's demanded of him; concerned, because he clearly _cares_. About her.

 

The clarity whips her with the bite of leather: hard and sudden and taking her breath away. She was wrong before. It's not want or lust or even intellect between them - it's _love_.

 

She _loves_ Sherlock.

 

Irene didn't think she even knew how anymore. The very idea is preposterous: terrifying. It makes her want to throw him out, pack her bags, and run as far from her Belgravia bedroom as is possible.

 

It's too late for that though, clearly.

 

Irene laughs, curling her body into Sherlock's and trailing one finger across his chest, over his racing heart. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, we're just getting started."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with this fic for twenty chapters and more than twenty weeks. There's just one more short chapter to go.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She reads about it in the paper, early on a Thursday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who has read this fic over the course of its posting. I hope you enjoyed it, and I'd love to hear your thoughts, regardless.
> 
> Extra shout-outs to Tali, Beverly, Natalie, and Becs, for convincing me to let this see the light of day after all. And to rBioch for her insightful and excellent commentary on every chapter! I've greatly enjoyed our dialogue.
> 
> This is a very short concluding chapter, but I wanted to post it before the end of the year. This is probably the point where I ought to remind you all that this fic is (believe it or not) canon compliant. So, proceed on at your own discretion, as with every chapter in this fic.
> 
> Happy New Year.

 

She reads about it in the paper, early on a Thursday morning, three weeks shy of a year since her and Sherlock began their little experiment together. The other side of her bed is still rumpled but long cold.

 

She'd thought Sherlock had headed off early on another case. There'd been a flurry of texts in the night - from his brother, undoubtedly, and that police constable that seemed to have taken a fancy to his detective skills.

 

It's just a little note buried in the society pages - barely worth their mention:

 

_Sherlock Holmes, younger brother of a minor ministry official, Mycroft Holmes, has entered a private rehabilitation program in Sweden for an undisclosed period of time._

 

There's not even a picture.

 

Irene snaps the paper shut on a sharp breath. She folds the paper neatly and sets it away on her bedside table. Her room looks as though it always has - not the slightest trace of any other occupant. Irene takes a moment before she rises, straightening her bedding and securing her dressing gown. There are no messages on her mobile other than the usual petty intrigues and requests.

 

There's an extra pack of cigarettes in her drawer - high tar, illegal - and, if it takes her three tries to light one, Irene will blame her shaking fingers on nicotine withdrawal and tell herself that it's high time she quit anyway.

 

She inhales one last long drag of the rich, deep smoke before she calls for Kate. It tastes like ash on her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. But, if it's any consolation, they had to pause here so that they can meet in ASiB and start all over again, with this foundation (now, in this headcanon) built under them.
> 
> Maybe they'll even learn to communicate with actual words one day.
> 
> In the meantime, if you'd prefer to end with a happier tone, feel free to consider the end of ch. 20 to be the conclusion of this fic and bask in the fluffy feels with Irene's revelation there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Services Rendered (2017)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14178177) by [randomscientist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/pseuds/randomscientist)




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